COMF1  LrBD 

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THE 


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TRY 


OTHER    LANDS. 


A  COLLECTION  OF 


TRANSLATIONS  INTO  ENGLISH  VERSE  OF  THE  POETRY 
OF  OTHER  LANGUAGES,  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN. 


COMPILED    BY 


N.    CLEMMONS    HUNT. 


PHILADELPHIA : 
PORTER    &    COAXES. 


COPYRIGHT,    1883,    BY   PORTER   &   COATES. 


PREFACE 


r  1 1HIS  work  does  not  claim  to  be  an  encyclopaedia  of 
-*-  all  the  poetry  of  other  countries  that  has  been  trans- 
lated into  English  verse,  but  is  a  collection  of  those  minor 
and  lyrical  poems  that  seemed  to  the  compiler,  after  an 
examination  of  all  the  works  on  the  subject  accessible  to 
him,  as  worthy  of  being  better  known  to  English-speaking 
people  than  they  ever  would  become  lying  hid  in  obscure 
corners  and  amid  much  rubbish.  Some  of  the  translations 
are  so  well  known  that  they  have  almost  become  incor- 
porated into  English  poetry,  but  by  far  the  greater  number 
have  never  been  read  by,  nor  are  even  known  by  name  to, 
many  of  the  persons  who  will  meet  with  this  collection ; 
and  the  compiler  hopes  that  the  work  may  prove  to  be  a 
valuable  companion  volume  to  any  one  of  the  encyclopaedias 
of  English  poetry  that  are  now  published. 

Some  of  the  poems,  perhaps,  should  be  classed  as  para- 
phrases rather  than  as  translations,  but  as  an  equivalent 
expression,  taking  into  account  the  difference  of  idiom, 
will  frequently  convey  the  author's  meaning  and  the  beauty 
of  the  passage  much  more  truthfully  than  a  mere  literal 
translation  could  possibly  do,  the  compiler  has  not  hesitated 
to  include  such  in  the  collection. 


vi  Preface. 

The  poems  are  arranged  under  subject  headings,  a  plan 
which  has  been  adopted  by  the  compilers  of  several  of  the 
most  successful  collections  of  English  poetry,  and  those  of 
each  nationality  are  grouped  together  under  the  respective 
headings.  As  neither  the  names  of  the  poems  nor  the 
first  lines  are  familiar,  the  only  index  deemed  necessary  is 
one  of  the  names  of  the  authors  alphabetically  arranged, 
containing  the  dates  of  their  birth  and  death,  whenever 
these  were  attainable,  and  also  the  names  of  the  translators. 

N.  C.  H. 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS. 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

ABOU  ALT — the  Mathematician  (Arabian),  about  530  A.  D. 

ON  LOVE J.  D.  Carlyle.     106 

ALAMANNI,  LUIGI  (Italian),  born  1495  A.  D.,  died  1556. 

PETRARCA'S  RETREAT U.  S.  Review.       81 

ALGOUS  (Greek],  born  620  B.  c. 

A  CONVIVIAL  SONG J.  H.  Merivale.     223 

WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  STATE     .     .     .    Sir  Wm.  Jones.     193 

ALCAZAR,  BALTAZAR  DE  (Spanish),  born  about  1600  A.  D. 

SLEEP Sir  John  Bowring.     444 

ALFADHEL  IBN  ALABAS  (Arabian). 

VERSES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  KINDRED  TRIBE.    J.  D.  Carlyle.     199 

ALY  BEN  ABD  ALGANY  OF  CORDOVA  (Arabian),  died  1110  A.  D. 
To  A   LADY   UPON    HER   REFUSAL   OF   A   PRESENT  OF 

MELONS ,     .     .     .     .  J.  D.  Carlyle.     431 

ANACREON  (Greek),  born  558  B.  c. 

AGE Abraham  Cowley.     233 

BEAUTY Thomas  Moore.     223 

CUPID  AND  THE  BEE Thomas  Moore.       89 

CUPID  BENIGHTED Thomas  Moore.       89 

DOVE,  THE 'Samuel  Johnson.       28 

DRINKING Thomas  Moore.     423 

GRASSHOPPER,  THE Abraham  Cowley.       29 

RETURN  OF  SPRING Sir  C.  A.  Elton.       27 

To  A  PAINTER Sir  C.  A.  Elton.       91 

VERNAL  WALK,  A Thomas  Moore.       26 

ANAXANDRIDES  (Greek),  born  about  376  B.  c. 

OLD  AGE J.  H.  Merivale.     231 

ANGELO,  see  Michael  Angelo  Buonarotti. 


Index  of  Authors. 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

ANTIPATKR  OF  SIDON  (Greek),  about  108  B.  c. 

HONEST  SHEPHERD,  THE Matthew  Prior.  425 

ON  ERINNA J.  H.  Merivale.  149 

ON  HOMER'S  BIRTH-PLACE     .     .     .     .     J.  H.  Merivale.  76 

ON  ORPHEUS Robert  Bland.  147 

ON  PINDAR J.  H.  Merivale.  149 

ON  SAPPHO Francis  Hodgson.  150 

ANTIPATER  OF  THESSALONICA  (Greek),  First  Century  B.  c. 

GREEK  POETESSES John  Wilson.     150 

ANTIPHANES  (Greek),  born  404  B.  c. 

ON  DEATH Richard  Cumberland.     308 

ON  DEATH Richard  Cumberland.     309 

PARASITE,  A Richard  Cumberland.     425 

ANTIPHILUS  (Greek),  First  Century  A.  D. 

ON  AN  ANCIENT  OAK J.  H.  Merivale.       27 

ON  A  BEE'S  NEST John  Wilson.      32 

ANYTE  (Greek),  born  about  280  B.  c. 

ON  A  GROVE  OF  LAUREL Francis  Hodgson.      30 

ON  THE  ENTRANCE  TO  A  CAVERN    ....  Unknown.      31 

APOLLODORUS  OF  CARYSTUS  (  Greek ),  Fourth  Century  B.  c. 
A  FRAGMENT — "  There  is  a  certain  hospitable  air." 

Richard  Cumberland.     229 

ARCHILOCHTTS  (Greek),  born  about  660  B.  c. 

EQUANIMITY Sir  C.  A.  Elton.     304 

ON  AN  ECLIPSE  OF  THE  SUN  .  .  .  Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  35 
PATIENCE  UNDER  SUFFERING  .  .  .  .  J.  H.  Merivale.  310 
Two  MILITARY  PORTRAITS  .  .  .  .  J.  H.  Merivale.  224 

ARIPHRON  (Greek),  born  about  450  B.  c. 

To  HEALTH Robert  Bland.     227 

ARISTOPHANES  (Greek),  born  about  440  B.  c. 

CHORUS — "Ye  children  of  man,  whose  life  is  a  span." 

J.  H.  Frere.     426 

ARISTOPHON  (Greek),  Fourth  Century  B.C. 

LOVE Richard  Cumberland.       98 

ARISTOTLE  (Greek),  born  384  B.  c. 

HYMN  TO  VIRTUE J.  H.  Merivale.     226 

ARNAULT,  VINCENT  ANTOINE  (French),  born  1766,  died  1834. 

THE  LEAF  .  .     Unknown.       72 


Index  of  Authors.  ix 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

ARNDT,  ERNST  MORITZ  (German},  born  1769,  died  1860. 

THE  GERMAN'S  FATHERLAND Macray.     211 

AUERSPERG,   ANTON    ALEXANDER    VON    (Anastasius  Grun), 
(German),  born  1806. 

HENRY  FRAUENLOB Edinburgh  Review.     177 

LAST  POET,  THE N.  L.  Frothingham.     247 

MANLY  TEARS William  Hunt.     272 

THE  RING William  Hunt.     275 

AUSONIUS,  DECIMUS  MAGNUS  (Latin),  born  about  310  A.  D., 

died  about  394  A.  D. 
ROSES Sir  C.  A.  Elton.      38 

AVIENUS,  RUFTJS  FESTUS  (Latin),  born  about  400  A.  D. 

COUNTRY  RETIREMENT Sir  C.  A.  Elton.      38 

THE  OAK  AND  THE  REED   ....      Sir  C.  A.  Elton.     311 

BACCHYLIDES  (Greek),  born  about  500  B.  o. 

PEACE Robert  Bland.     224 

BAGGESEN,  JENS  (Danish),  born  1764,  died  1826. 

To  MY  NATIVE  LAND Wm.  S.  Walker.     216 

BAIF,  JEAN  ANTOINE  DE  (French],  born  1531,  died  1592. 

CALCULATION  OF  LIFE,  THE     .      Louisa  Stuart  Costello.     322 
EPITAPH  ON  RABELAIS  ....    Louisa  Stuart  Costello.     172 

BARBE  DE  VERRUE  (French). 

"THE  WISE  MAN  SEES  HIS  WINTER  CLOSE."  E.Taylor.     286 

BASSELIN,  OLIVIER  (French),  born  about  1350,  died  about  1419. 

To  MY  NOSE John  Oxenford.     439 

BATIUSHKOV  (Russian). 

LOVE  IN  A  BOAT Sir  John  Bowring.     123 

THE  PRISONER Sir  John  Bowring.     200 

BELLA Y,  JOACHIM  DU  (French),  born  about  1524,  died  1560. 
SONNET — "Say,   canst  thou  number  all  the  stars  that 

gleam " Louisa  Stuart  Costello.     Ill 

BELLEAU,  REMI  (French),  born  1528,  died  1577. 

APRIL Louisa  Stuart  Costello.       69 

BEMB'O,  PIETRO  (Italian),  bora  1470,  died  1547. 

SONNET  TO  ITALY U.  S.  Literary  Gazette.       81 

BEN  ALRUMI  (Arabian),  died  905  A.  D. 

ON  A  VALETUDINARIAN J.  D.  Carlyle.     430 


Index  of  Authors. 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

BERANGER,  PIERRE  JEAN  DE  (French),  born  1780,  died  1857. 

KING  OF  YVETOT,  THE Unknown.  437 

Louis  XI Francis  Mahony.  172 

MY  OLD  COAT Unknown.  290 

BERNARD  OF  CLUNY  (Latin),  Twelfth  Century  A.  D. 

THE  CELESTIAL  COUNTRY    ....  John  Mason  Neale.  344 

BION  (Greek),  born  about  200  B.  c. 

ELEGY  ON  ADONIS Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  98 

HYMN  TO  THE  EVENING  STAR  ...     «/.  H.  Merivale.  33 

ON  FRIENDSHIP F.  Fawkes.  228 

TEACHER  TAUGHT,  THE ,     .  F.  Fawkes.  92 

BOCCACCIO,  GIOVANNI  (Italian),\>ovn  1313,  died  1379. 

DANTE F.  C.  Gray.  165 

BONILLA,  ALONSO  DE  (Spanish),  born  about  1580. 

"LET'S  HOLD  SWEET  CONVERSE"    .  Sir  John  Bowring.  295 

BRANDT,  GERARD  (Dutch)  born  1626,  died  1685. 

EPITAPH  ON  THE  EARL  OF  EGMONT.    Sir  John  Boivring.     184 

BURGER,  GOTTFRIED  AUGUST  (German),  born  1748,  died  1794. 

ELLENORE W.  Taylor.     396 

CALLIMACHUS  (Greek),  born  about  295  B.  c. 

ON  A  BROTHER  AND  SISTER  .     .     .     .     J.  H.  Merivale.     226 

THE  VIRGIN'S  OFFERING  TO  VENUS      .     .      S.  Trevor.     230 
CALLINUS  (Greek),  born  about  782  B.  c. 

A  FRAGMENT — "  How  long  will  ye  slumber  ?  when  will 

ye  take  heart?" H.N.Coleridge.     198 

CALLISTRATUS  (Greek),  born  420  B.  c. 

ODE  TO  HARMODIUS Denman.     141 

CAMOENS,  Luis  DE  (Portuguese),  born  about  1517,  died  1579. 
CANZONET — "  Since  in  this  dreary  vale  of  tears." 

Lord  Strangford.     342 
MADRIGAL — "  Dear  is  the  blush  of  early  light." 

Lord  Strangford.     301 
SONNET — "Now    past    for    me    are    April's    maddening 

hours " Lord  Strangford.     338 

STANZAS — "  I  saw  the  virtuous  man  contend." 

Lord  Strangford.     337 
"WHEN  DAY  HAS  SMILED  A  SOFT  FAREWELL." 

Lord  Strangford.     301 


Index  of  Authors.  xi 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

CARPHYLLIDES  (Greek),  Second  Century  A.  D. 

ON  A  HAPPY  OLD  MAN Robert  Bland.     311 

CASA,  GIOVANNI  BELLA  (Italian),  born  1503,  died  1556. 

SONNET  ON  VENICE Felicia  D.  Hemans.       82 

CASTRO  Y  ANAYA,  PEDRO  DE  (Spanish),  Seventeenth  Century. 

THE  RIVULET W.  C.  Bryant.       73 

CATS,  JACOB  (Dutch),  born  1577,  died  1660. 

' '  WHO  FLIES  THE  MADDEN'D  STORM.  "  Sir  John  Bmcring.     343 
CATULLUS,  CAIUS  VALERIUS  (Latin),  born  about  87  B.  c. 

Ox  THE  DEATH  OF  LESBIA'S  SPARROW.     Hon.  G.  Lamb.     238 

THE  RITES  AT  His  BROTHER'S  GRAVE.    Francis  Hodgson.     155 

To  HIMSELF W.  Peter.     156 

To  THE  PENINSULA  OF  SIRMIO     .     .     .    Thomas  Moore.       76 
CHAMISSO,  ADELBERT  VON  (German),  born  1781,  died  1838. 

THE  OLD  WASHERWOMAN    ....  Foreign  Quarterly.     328 
CHENEDOLLE,  CHARLES  DE  (French),  born  1769,  died  1833. 

REGRETS London  Magazine.     283 

THE  YOUNG  MAIDEN  AMONG  THE  RUINS  OF  ROME. 

London  Magazine.     289 
CHISON,  JAQUES  DE  (French),  Thirteenth  Century. 

"WHEN    THE    SWEET    DAYS    OF   SUMMER    COME    AT 

LAST" Edgar  Taylor.     109 

CLAUDIAN  (CLAUDIUS  CLAUDIANUS),  (Latin),  born  about  365 
A.  D. 

THE  OLD  MAN  OF  VERONA     .     .     .    Abraham  Cowley.     313 
CLAUDIUS,  MATTHIAS  (German),  born  1740,  died  1818. 

NIGHT  SONG C.  T.  Brooks.      45 

CLEANTHES  (Greek),  born  about  290  B.  c. 

HYMN  TO  JUPITER Sir  C.  A.  Elton.     377 

DA  CUNHA,  J.  A.  (Portuguese),  Eighteenth  Century. 

LINES  WRITTEN  DURING  SEVERE  ILLNESS  .     T.  Roscoe.     339 

DEMOCHARIS  (Greek),  Fifth  Century  A.  D. 

ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  SAPPHO     .     .     .  Francis  Hodgson.     151 
DERZHAVIN,   GABRIEL    ROMANOVICH  (Russian),   born   1743, 
died  1816. 

GOD Sir  John  Bowring.     364 

DIONYSIUS  (Greek),  Second  Century  A.  D. 

HYMN  TO  APOLLO W.  Hay.    379 


Index  of  Authors. 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

DIOSCORIDES  (Greek). 

SPARTAN  VIRTUE J.  H.  Merivale.     198 

THE  PERSIAN  SLAVE  TO  His  MASTER.     J.  H.  Merivale.     197 
DIOTIMUS  (Greek),  about  280  B.  c. 

To  A  DUENNA J.  H.  Merivale.     423 

Do  CEO,  VIOLANTE  (Portuguese),  born  1601,  died  1693. 

"WHILE  TO  BETHLEM  WE  ARE  GOING." 

Sir  John  Bowring.     338 
EPICHARMUS  (Greek),  born  about  540  B.  c. 

GENEALOGIES Richard  Cumberland.     424 

ERINNA  (Greek),  born  about  600  B.  c. 

EPITAPH  ON  A  VIRGIN  OF  MITYLENE.    Kir  C.  A.  Elton.     221 
EVALD,  JOHANNES  (Danish),  born  1743,  died  1781. 

KING  CHRISTIAN H.   W.  Longfellow.     214 

THE  WISHES Wm.  S.  Walker.     219 

EUBULUS  (Greek),  about  376  B.  c. 

"  WHY,   FOOLISH    PAINTER,    GIVE   THOSE    WINGS    TO 

LOVE?" Unknoivn.       95 

EUENUS  (Greek),  born  about  460  B.  c. 

CONTRADICTION J.  H.  Merivale.     308 

EUPHORION  (Greek),  born  274  B.  c. 

ON  TEARS J.  H.  Merivale.     228 

EUPOLIS  (Greek),  born  446  B.  c. 

THE  ALTERED  CONDITION  OF  ATHENS. 

Richard  Cumberland.     197 
EURIPIDES  (Greek),  born  480  B.  c. 

CHORUS — "  Tell  me,  ye  gales,  ye  rising  gales." 

Robert  Potter.     195 

FRAGMENT — "  There  is  a  streamlet  issuing  from  a  rock." 

S.  Rogers.       95 

FRAGMENT — "This  is  true  liberty  when  free  born  men." 

S.  Rogers.     196 

FROM  A  CHORUS  IN  ALCESTIS Chapman.     232 

FILICAJA,  VINCENZO  DA  (Italian),  born  1642,  died  1707. 

PROVIDENCE Leigh  Hunt.     321 

FRANCIS  I.  (French),\)ora  1494,  died  1547. 

EPITAPH  ON  AGNES  SOREL    .     .    Louisa  Stuart  Cosiello.     168 
EPITAPH  ON  FRANQOISE  DE  Foix.    Louisa  Stuart  Costello.     170 


Index  of  Authors.  xiii 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

FREILIGRATH,  FERDINAND  (German),  born  1810,  died  1876. 

THE  FLOWERS'  REVENGE Unknown.      54 

GAWINSKI,  JOHN  (Polish),  Seventeenth  Century. 

THE  SOLDIER  SLAIN Sir  John  Bowring.     220 

GEORGE,  a  physician  of  Antioch  (Arabian). 

AN  EPIGRAM  UPON  AN  EGYPTIAN  PHYSICIAN. 

/.  D.  Carlyle.     431 

GERHARDT,  PAUL  (German),  born  1606,  died  1676. 

TRUST  IN  PROVIDENCE Charles  Wesley.     367 

GLEIM,  JOHANN   WILHELM   LUDWIG,  (German),  born  1719, 
died  1803. 

INVITATION,  THE S.  H.  Whitman.  243 

WANDERER,  THE      . Macray.  208 

WAK  SONG W.  Taylor.  411 

GOETHE,  JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  (German),  born  1749,  died 
1832. 

AT  MIDNIGHT  HOUR E.  A.  Bowring.  249 

CHORUS  OF  SPIRITS E.  A.  Bowring.  52 

DEDICATION  TO  FAUST Fitz-Greene  Halleck.  244 

ERL-KING,  THE F.  H.  Hedge.  409 

MARGARET  AT  HER  SPINNING-WHEEL.     E.  A.  Bowring.  116 

MIGNON'S  SONG Felicia  D.  Hemans.  251 

SINGER,  THE F.  H.  Hedge.  250 

THE  LOVED  ONE  EVER  NEAR  ....      J.  8.  Dwight.  114 

To  THE  CHOSEN  ONE E.  A.  Bowring.  115 

VIOLET,  THE E.  A.  Bowring.  58 

GONGORA  Y  ARGOTE,  Luis  (Spanish),  born  1561,  died  1627. 
"COME,  WANDERING  SHEEP,  O  COME." 

Sir  John  Bowring.     375 

GROSSI,  TOMMASO  (Italian),  born  1791,  died  1853. 
THE  FAIR  PRISONER  TO  THE  SWALLOW. 

W.  D.  Howells.     299 

GUIDICCIONI,  GIOVANNI  (Italian),  born  1500,  died  1541. 

SONNET  TO  ROME U.  S.  Literary  Gazette.  82 

HAFIZ  (Persian),  born  about  1300,  died  about  1390. 

PERSIAN  SONG Sir  William  Jones.  104 

HASSAN  ALASADY  (Arabian). 

ON  THE  TOMB  OF  MANO J.  D.  Carlyle.     161 


xiv  Index  of  Authors. 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGB 

HATEM  TAX  (Arabian),  about  600  A.  D. 

ON  AVARICE J.  D.  Carlyle.     318 

HEINE,  HEINRICH,  (German),  born  1799,  died  1856. 

EVENING  GOSSIP Edinburgh  Review.  273 

FIR-TREE  AND  THE  PALM,  THE  .     .     .     .  W.  W.  Story.  57 

LORELEI W.  H.  Furness.  410 

THEY  GAVE  ME  ADVICE C.  G.  Leland.  434 

"Tnou  GENTLE  FERRY-MAIDEN"      .     .      C.  G.  Leland.  274 

Two  GRENADIERS,  THE W.  H.  Furness.  410 

HERDER,  JOHANN  GOTTFRIED  VON  (German),  born  1744,  died 
1803. 

To  A  DRAGON-FLY W.  Taylor.       46 

HERRERA,  FERNANDO  DE  (Spanish),  born  1534,  died  about  1589. 

ODE  TO  SLEEP T.  Roscoe.     293 

HOLTY,  LUDWIG  HEINRICH  CHRISTOPH  (German),  born  1748, 
died  1776. 

COUNTRY  LIFE Fraser's  Magazine.      48 

DEATH  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALE,  THE     .     .   C.  T.  Brooks.      47 

HORACE  (QuiNTUs  HORATIUS  FLACCUS),  (Latin),  born  65  B.  c., 

died  8  B.  c. 
ODE  IV.,  BOOK  I.     To  Lucius  SEXTIUS. 

Archdeacon  Wrangham.       35 

ODE  IX. ,  BOOK  I.  To  THALIARCHUS  .  John  Dryden.  36 
ODE  XXII.,  BOOK  I.  To  ARISTIUS  Fuscus. 

Samuel  Johnson.     242 

ODE  XXIV.,  BOOK  I.  To  VIRGIL  .  Theodore  Martin.  158 
ODE  XXXVIII.,  BOOK  I.  To  His  SERVANT. 

William  Cov-per.     242 

ODE  III.,  BOOK  II.  To  DELLIUS  .  .  J.  H.  Merivale.  240 
ODE  X.,  BOOK  II.  To  LICINIUS  .  .  William  Cowper.  316 
ODE  IX.,  BOOK  III.  THE  RECONCILIATION. 

Bishop  Atterbury.     103 

ODE  XVI. ,  BOOK  III.  To  MAECENAS.  Theodore  Martin.  314 
ODE  XXIX.,  BOOK  III.  To  MAECENAS.  John  Dryden.  151 
ODE  XXX.,  BOOK  III.  To  MELPOMENE. 

Theodore  Martin.     157 
ODE  III..  BOOK  IV.     To  MELPOMENE. 

Bishop  Atterbury.     156 
ODE  IX.,  BOOK  IV.     To  LOLLIUS     .     Theodore  Martin.     159 


Index  of  Authors.  xv 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

HUGO,  VICTOR  MARIE  (French),  born  1802. 

EXPECTATION Democratic  Review.     Ill 

THE  DJINNS John  L.  0' Sullivan.  419 

IBRAHIM  BEN  KHIRET  ABOU  ISAAC  (Arabian). 

ON  A  THUNDER  STORM J.  D.  Carlyle.  40 

INGEMANN,  BERNHARD  SEVERIN  (Danish),  born  1789. 

THE  ASPEN Fortnightly  Review.  59 

JACOBI,  JOHANN  GEORG  (German),  born  1740,  died  1814. 

SONG — "  Tell  nie,  where's  the  violet  fled. "      .     Beresford.       44 

JACOBUS  DE  BENEDICTIS  (Latin),  Thirteenth  Century. 

STABAT  MATER Abraham  Coles.  360 

JULIAN,  PREFECT  OF  EGYPT  (Greek),  born  about  360  A.  D. 

LOVE  AND  WINE W.  Peter.  102 

JUNGMANN,  JOSEPH  JAKOB  (Bohemian),  born  1773,  died  1847. 

CONTENT Sir  John  Bowring.       63 

KERNER,  ANDREAS  JUSTINUS  (German),  born  1786,  died  1862. 

THE  Two  COFFINS Dulcken.     276 

KOCHANOWSKI,  JOHN  (Polish),  born  1532,  died  1584. 

ODE  TO  SLEEP Sir  John  Bowring.     302 

KOLLAR,  JOHN  (Bohemian),  born  1793,  died  1852. 

A  SLAVONIAN  MAID Sir  John  Bowring.     303 

LOVE  AND  COUNTRY Sir  John  Bowring.     200 

SLAVONIA Sir  John  Bowring.     220 

"TELL  ME,  YE  REAPERS"    ....  Sir  John  Bowring.     130 

KORNER,  KARL  THEODOR  (German),  born  1791,  died  1813. 

SWORD-SONG W.  B.  Charley.     414 

KOSEGARTEN,  LuowiG  THEOBUL  (German),  born  1758,  died 
1818. 

AMEN  OF  THE  STONES,  THE C.  T.  Brooks.     324 

VIA  CRUCIS,  VIA  Lucis C.  T.  Brooks.     322 

LAMARTINE,  ALPHONSE  DE  (French),  born  1792,  died  1869. 
HYMN — "A  hymn  more,  0  my  Lyre." 

Knickerbocker  Magazine.     370 

LENAU,  NICOLAUS  (German),  born  1802,  died  1850. 

THE  POSTILION C.  T.  Brooks.    277 

LEUNGREN,  ANNA  MARIA  (Swedish),  born  1754,  died  1817. 

FAMILY  PORTRAITS  ....  Foreign  Quarterly  Review.     432 


xvi  Index  of  Authors. 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

LKONIDAS  OF  ALEXANDRIA  (Greek),  First  Century  A.  D. 

ON  THE   PICTURE   OF  AN   INFANT  PLAYING  NEAR   A 

PRECIPICE S.  Rogers.     229 

LEONIDAS  OF  TARENTUM  (Greek),  born  about  272  B.  c. 

HOME Robert  Bland.     232 

INSCRIPTION  ON  A  BOAT J.  H.  Merivale.     228 

INSCRIPTION  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  A  RIVER.    Robert  Bland.       34 
ON  HOMER Francis  Hodgson.     148 

LTJCIAN  (Greek),  born  about  90  A.  D.,  died  180  A.  D. 

THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  His  SON W.  Hay.     429 

To  A  WORN-OUT  BELLE  .     .     .     .     .     .  J.  H.  Merivale.     429 

MARCUS  ARGENTARIUS  (Greek). 

THE  LEAN  LOVERS Unknown.     428 

MARGUERITE  DE  VALOIS  (French),  born  1492,  died  1549. 
ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  BROTHER,  FRANCIS  I. 

Louisa  Stuart  Costello.     167 

MAROT,  CLEMENT  (French),  born  1505,  died  1554. 

THE  PORTRAIT Louisa  Stuart  Costello.     112 

MARTIAL  (MARCUS  VALERIUS  MARTIALIS),  (Latin),  born  about 
40  A.  D.,  died  about  105  A.  D. 

ON  AN  ODD  FELLOW The  "  Spectator."    430 

ON  ANTONIUS W.Peter.     155 

RUFUS The  " Spectator."     430 

To  AVITUS Abraham  Cowley.     311 

To  JULIUS  MARTIALIS Unknown.     312 

To  POSTUMUS Abraham  Cowley.     310 

MARTIAL  DE  PARIS  (French),  born  about  1440,  died  1508. 

SONG — "Dear  the  felicity"     .     .    Louisa  Stuart  Costello.     289 

MATTHISSON,  FRIEDRICH  VON  (German),  born  1761,  died  1831. 

FOREVER  THINE J.  Macray.     123 

THE  SPRING  EVENING Unknown.       51 

MEDICI,  LORENZO  DE'  (Italian),  born  1448,  died  1492. 
ORAZIONE — "  All  nature  hear  the  sacred  song  " 

W.  Roscoe.     362 
STANZAS—"  Follow  that  fervor,  0  devoted  spirit " 

London  Magazine.     362 

MELEAGER  (Greek),  born  about  96  B.  c. 

BEAUTY  COMPARED  WITH  FLOWERS    .     .    John  Wilson.    232 


Index  of  Authors.  xvii 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

MELEAGER  (Greek),  born  about  96  B.  c. 

COMPARISON,  THE Shepherd.  94 

GARLAND,  THE W.  Peter.  234 

LOVE  THE  TENNIS-PLAYER  ....      Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  97 

Music  AND  BEAUTY J.  H.  Merivale.  95 

RETURN  OF  SPRING,  THE Robert  Bland.  25 

SONG — "  Still  like  dew  in  silence  falling  "  Thomas  Moore.  94 

To  THE  CICADA Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  31 

MENANDER  (Greek),  born  342  a  c. 

THE  USE  OF  RICHES    ....      Richard  Cumberland.  309 

MERCANTINI,  LUIGI  (Italian),  Nineteenth  Century. 

THE  GLEANER  OF  SAPRI Unknown.  203 

MESIHI  (Turkish),  Fourteenth  Century. 

ODE — "  Hear  how  the  nightingales  on  every  spray  " 

Sir  William  Jones.       41 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  BUONAROTTI  (Italian),  born  1474,  died  1564. 
IF  I  AM  FAIR,  'TIS  FOR  MYSELF  ALONE. 

North  American  Revieio.     108 

PH<ENIX,  THE John  S.  Harford.     319 

ON  DANTE John  S.  Harford.     163 

SONNET  XXI. — "Lady,  how  can  it  be?   and  yet  each 

day  " John  S.  Harford.     163 

SONNET  XLVI. — "False  Love!    with  thee,  for  many  a 

live  long  year " John  S.  Harford.     320 

THE  MIGHT  OF  ONE  FAIR  FACE     .      Hartley  Coleridge.     296 

To  VASARI John  S.  Harford.     320 

To  VITTORIA  COLONNA John  S.  Harford.     162 

MILLEVOYE,  CHARLES  HUBERT  (French),  born  1782,  died  1816. 

THE  FALL  OF  THE  LEAVES    ....  Francis  Mahony.     174 

MIMNERMUS  (Greek),  born  594  B.  c. 

YOUTH  AND  AGE H.  N.  Coleridge.     221 

MOSCHUS  (Greek),  born  about  184  B.  o. 

LAMENT  FOR  BION Sir  C.  A.  Elton.     142 

MUSSET,  ALFRED  DE  (French),  born  1810,  died  1857. 

RECOLLECTION S.  B.  Wister.     285 

NABEGAT  BENI  JAID  (Arabian),  born  about  542  A.  D.  ,  died 
662. 

ON  TEMPER J.  D.  Carlyle.     431 

2 


xviii  Index  of  Authors, 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

NIBI  (Japanese). 

ELEGY  ON  THE  POET'S  WIFE.     Basil  Hall  Chamberlain.     188 

ELEGY  ON  THE  POET'S  YOUNG  Sox. 

Basil  Hall  Chamberlain.     189 
NIOSINETUS  (Greek),  Third  Century  B.  c. 

THE  FETE  CHAMPETRE J.  H.  Merivale.       26 

NICIAS  (Greek),  about  280  B.  c. 

THE  BEE Unknown.       31 

NIEMCEWICZ,  JULIAN  URSIN  (Polish),  born  1757,  died  1841. 

GLINSKI Sir  John  Bowring.     180 

Kossis  (Greek),  about  280  B.  c. 

ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  THYMARETE  .     .     J.  H.  Merivale.     147 
OEHLENSCHLAGER,  ADAM  GOTTLOB  (Danish),  born  1770,  died 
1850. 

THE  BARD Wm.  S.  Walker.     215 

THE  MORNING  WALK   .     .     .  Foreign  Quarterly  Review.       61 
OXGARO,  FRANCESCO  BALL'  (Italian),  born  1808,  died  1873. 

THE  DECORATION W.  D.  Howells.     203 

ONOMACRITUS  {Greek),  born  540  B.  c. 

To  THE  MOON Sir  C.  A.  Elton.       33 

ORLEANS,  CHARLES  D'  (French),  born  1391,  died  1467. 

I  STOOD  UPON  THE  WILD  SEA-SHORE. 

Louisa  Stuart  Costello.     205 

RENOUVEAU — "  Gentle  Spring  in  sunshine  clad  " 

H.   W.  Longfellow.       68 

SONG — "  Heaven  !  'tis  delight  to  see  how  fair  " 

Louisa  Stuart  Costello.     110 

THE  FAIREST  THING  IN  MORTAL  EYES. 

Henry  Francis  Gary.     281 
PALLADAS  (Greek),  about  370  A.  D. 

ALL  THE  WORLD'S  A  STAGE  .     .     .     .     J.  H.  Merivale.     306 

ON  A  CELEBRATED  ACTOR J.  H.  Merivale.     430 

PAUL,  THE  SILENTIARY  (Greek),  about  550  A.  D. 

THE  CHAIN  OF  LOVE J.  H.  Merivale.     103 

To  WEAVE  A  GARLAND  FOR  THE  ROSE. 

Thomas  Moore.     101 

PELLICO,  SILVIO  (Italian),  born  1789,  died  1854. 

CANZONE,  WRITTEN  IN  PRISON.    Knickerbocker  Magazine.     298 


Index  of  Authors.  xix 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

PETRARCA,  FRANCESCO  (Italian),  born  1304,  died  1374. 

HE  PRAISES  THE  BEAUTIES  OF  LAURA    .     .  Wrottesley.  107 

HE  REVISITS  VAUCLUSB    ....      Anne  Bannerman.  80 

LEAVE-TAKING New  Monthly.  107 

ON  His  RETURN  TO  VAUCLUSE Unknown.  80 

To  THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  VAUCLUSE      .     .     .    Molesworth.  77 

VAUCLUSE Capel  Lofft.  79 

PFEFFEL,  GOTTLIEB  CONRAD  (German},  born  1736,  died  1809. 

THE  TOBACCO-PIPE C.  T.  Brooks.     209 

PHILEMON  (Greek),  about  339  B.  c. 

ON  TEARS Robert  Bland.     231 

THE  TEST  OF  WISDOM    ....  Richard  Cumberland.     308 

PHILODEMUS  (Greek),  First  Century  B.  c. 

INVITATION  TO  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  EPICURUS. 

J.  H.  Merivale.     151 

PHILOSTRATUS  (Greek),  born  about  200  A.  D. 

To  CELIA Ben  Jonson.     97 

PINDAR  (Greek),  born  522  B.  c.,  died  about  442  B.  c. 

A  PRAYER  FOR  A  GUILELESS  AND  BENEVOLENT  DISPO- 
SITION   Henry  Francis  Cary.     307 

INNATE  WORTH Henry  Francis  Cary.     306 

OLYMPIC  ODE  II. — To  THERON  OF  AGRIGENTUM. 

Abraham  Moore.     135 

PISAN,  CHRISTINE  DE  (French),  born  about  1363. 
ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  FATHER. 

Louisa  Stuart  Costello.     166 
RONDEL — "  I  live  in  hopes  of  better  days." 

Louisa  Stuart  Costello.     290 

PLATO,  THE  COMIC  POET  (Greek),  about  482  B.C. 

THE  TOMB  OF  THEMISTOCLES     .     Riclutrd  Cumberland.     149 

PLATO,  (Greek),  born  428  B.C.,  died  347  B.  c. 

ON  A  SLEEPING  CUPID Robert  Bland.       93 

POLAK,  MILOTA  ZoiRAD  (Bohemian),  born  1788. 

KRASKA  TO  KWETOSLAW   ....      Sir  John  Bowring.     131 
KWETOSLAW  TO  KRASKA      ....  Sir  John  Sou-ring.     132 

POLIZIANO,  ANGELO  (Italian),  born  1454,  died  1494. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  MAID  .   W.  Parr  Greswell.     297 


xx  Index  of  Authors. 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

PONCE  DE  LEON,  Luis  (Spanish),  born  1527,  died  1591. 

NOCHE  SERENA Sir  John  Bowring.  334 

RETIREMENT Edinburgh  Review.  331 

THE  LIFE  OF  THE  BLESSED     .     .     .     .     W.  C.  Bryant.  373 

PUCHMAYER,  ANTONIN  (Bohemian),  born  1769,  died  1820. 

ODE  ON  J.  ZIZKA  VON  TROTZNOW  .    Sir  John  Bowring.     184 

QUEVEDO  Y  VILLEGAS,  FRANCISCO  DE  (Spanish),  born   1580, 

died  1645. 
SONNET  TO  ROME Felicia  D.  Hemans.      86 

RAMLER,  KARL  WILHELM  (German),  born  1725,  died  1798. 

ODE  TO  WINTER W.  Taylor.      43 

REDI,  FRANCESCO  (Italian),  born  1626,  died  about  1695. 

THE  GENTLE  SOUL Walter  Savage  Landor.     296 

RICHARD  COTUR  DE  LION  (French),  born  1157,  died  1199. 

No  CAPTIVE  KNIGHT  WHOM  CHAINS  CONFINE. 

Unknown.     165 
.RivAS,  DUQUE  DE,  ANGEL  DE  SAAVEDRA  (Spanish),  born  1791. 

ODE  TO  THE  LIGHTHOUSE  AT  MALTA    .     .       Unknown.      83 

ROGIERS,  PIERRE  (French),  Twelfth  Century. 
WHO  HAS  NOT  LOOKED  UPON  HER  BROW. 

Louisa  Stuart  Costello.     110 

RONSARD,  PIERRE  DE  (French),  born  1524,  died  1585. 

To  His  LYRE Louisa  Stuart  Costello.     168 

To  MARY  STTTART Louisa  Stuart  Costello.     171 

ROTA,  BERNARDINO  (Italian),  born  1509,  died  1575. 

SONNET  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  PORZIA  CAPECE. 

U.  S.  Literary  Gazette.     164 
ROUGET  DE  L'ISLE,  JOSEPH  (French),  born  1760,  died  1836. 

THE  MARSEILLES  HYMN Unknown.     206 

RUFINUS  (Greek). 

THE  GARLAND W.  Peter.     234 

Ruiz  DE  HITA,  JUAN  (Spanish),  Fourteenth  Century. 

PRAISE  OF  LITTLE  WOMEN    .      North  American  Review.     441 

SALIS,  JOHANN  GAUDENZ  VON  (German),  born  1762,  died  1834. 

CHEERFULNESS Unknown.  325 

HARVEST  SONG C.  T.  Brooks.  54 

SONG  OF  THE  SILENT  LAND  .     .     .    H.  W.  Longfellow.  327 


Index  of  Authors.  xxi 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

SANCTA  CLARA,  ABRAHAM  A  (German),  born  1642,  died  1709. 

ST.  ANTHONY'S  SERMON  TO  THE  FISHES    .       Unknown.  435 

SANTILLANA,  MARQUIS  DE  (Spanish),  born  1398,  died  1458. 

SERRANA — "I  ne'er  on  the  border"       .     .     .     T.  Roscoe.  292 

SAPPHO  (Greek),  about  610  B.C. 

FRAGMENT — "  I  have  a  child,  a  lovely  one  " 

J.  H.  Merivale.  230 

ODE  TO  VENUS    .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .   Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  87 

To  A  GIRL  BELOVED Sir  0.  A.  Elton.  88 

To  THE  BELOVED Ambrose  Phillips.  96 

SCHILLER,  JOHANN   CHRISTOPH   FRIEDRICH  VON  (German), 
born  1759,  died  1805. 

COLUMBUS E.  Bulwer  Lytton.  .  177 

CRANES  OF  IBYCUS,  THE  ....      E.  Bulwer  Lytton.  390 

DIVER,  THE E.  Bulwer  Lytton.  384 

EXPECTATION E.  Bulwer  Lytton.  120 

PILGRIM,  THE F.  H.  Hedge.  253 

SHARING  OF  THE  EARTH,  THE  .     .      E.  Bulwer  Lytton.  252 

SONG  OF  THE  BELL,  THE W.  H.  Furness.  259 

THEKLA'S  SONG William  Hunt.  122 

To  A  REFORMER William  Hunt.  327 

To  THE  IDEALS E.  Bulwer  Lytton.  256 

SCHNEZLER,  AUGUST  (German). 

THE  DESERTED  MILL    .     .     .      James  Clarence  Mangan.     417 
SENECA,  Lucius   ANN.EUS  (Latin),  born  about  5  B.  c.,  died 

65  A.D. 

CLIMB  AT  COURT  FOR  ME  THAT  WILL.    Andrew  Marvell.     240 
SHAFAY  MOHAMMED  BEN  IDRIS  (Arabian),  born  767  A.  D., 

died  about  820  A.  D. 
ON  FATALISM J.  D.  CarlyU.     318 

SHEMS  ALMAALI  CABUS  (Arabian). 

ON  LIFE J.  D.  Carlyle.     317 

SIMMIAS  (Greek),  born  about  440  B.  c. 

ON  SOPHOCLES Joseph  Addison.     141 

SIMONIDES  (Greek),  born  556  B.  c. 

EPITAPH — "  Go  tell  the  Spartans  thou  who  passest  by  " 

Unknown.     194 
ON  CIMON'S  LAND  AND  SEA  VICTORY.     J.  H.  Merivale.     195 


xxii  Index  of  Authors. 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

SIMONIDES  (Greek),  born  556  B.  c. 

ON  THOSE  WHO  FELL  AT  THERMOPYKS.    Robert  Bland.     193 

VIRTUE Sir  C.  A.  Elton.     305 

SJOBERG,  ERIC  ( Vitalis),  (Swedish),  bom  1794,  died  1828. 

LIFE  AND  DEATH Foreign  Review.     330 

SOLON  (Greek),  born  about  638  B.  c.,  died  about  558  B.  c. 

A  FRAGMENT — "The  man  who  boasts  of  golden  stores." 

Langhorne.     304 

JUSTICE J.  H.  Merivale.     305 

REMEMBRANCE  AFTER  DEATH  .     .     .     .  J.  H.  Merivale.     222 
STAGNELIUS,  ERIC  JOHAN  (Swedish),  born  1793,  died  1823. 

BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE Foreign  Review.      65 

STESICHORUS  (Greek),  born  about  645  B.  c. 

THE  PROCESSION J.  H.  Merivale.     222 

STOLBERG,  FRIEDRICH  LEOPOLD,  COUNT  (German),  born  1750, 
died  1819. 

To  THE  SEA C.  T.  Brooks.      50 

STRATO  (Greek),  Third  Century  A.  D. 

LOVE  NOT  EXTINGUISHED  BY  AGE  .     .     J.  H.  Merivale.       96 
SURVILLE,  CLOTILDE  DE  (French),  born  about  1405,  died  about 
1480. 

THE  CHILD  ASLEEP H.  W.  Longfellow.     282 

SZYRMA,  LACH  (Polish). 

THE  WENDISH  POSTILLION  ....  Sir  John  Bowring.     126 
TEGNER,  ESAIAS  (Swedish),  born  1782,  died  1846. 

LOVE R.  S.  Latham.     112 

TERESA  DE  AVILA,  SANTA  (Spanish),  born  1515,  died  1582. 

SONNET — '"Tis  not  thy  terrors,  Lord,  thy  dreadful  frown  " 

Sir  John  Bowring.     374 
THEOCRITUS  (Greek),  born  about  300  B.  c. 

ON  ANACREON BlacJcwood's  Magazine.     148 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  PTOLEMY  PHILADELPHUS.  F.  Fawkes.     142 
THEOGNIS  (Greek),  born  549  B.  c. 

RETURN  TO  MY  NATIVE  LAND  ....      J.  H.  Frere.     194 

YOUTH  AND  AGE Robert  Bland.     225 

THEOPHILUS  (Greek). 

FRAGMENT — "  If  love  be  folly  as  the  schools  would  prove  " 

Richard  Cumberland.     428 


Index  of  Authors. 


TRANSLATOR.  PAGE 

THOMAS  DE  CELANO  (Latin),  Thirteenth  Century. 

DIES  IR^ John  A.  Dix.  358 

TIBULLUS,  ALBIUS  (Latin),  born  about  62  B.  c.,  died  18  B.  c. 

To  SULPICIA Thomas  Moore.  239 

TIECK,  LUDWIG  (German),  born  1773,  died  1853. 

SPRING C.  T.  Brooks.  53 

TULLIUS  GEMINUS  (Greek). 

ON  THEMISTOCLES J.  H.  Merivale.  148 

TYMNES  (Greek). 

ON  ONE  WHO  DIED  IN  A  FOREIGN  COUNTRY. 

J.  H.  Merivale.  229 

TYRT.EUS  (Greek),  born  684  B.  c. 

WAR  ELEGY Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  191 

UHLAND,  JOHANN  LTIDWIG  (German),  born  1787,  died  1862. 

COURSE  OF  THINGS,  THE W.  H.  Furness.  115 

GOLDSMITH'S  DAUGHTER,  THE Unknown.  118 

MINSTREL'S  CURSE,  THE William  Hunt.  405 

PASSAGE,  THE Sarah  Austin.  246 

TRAVELLING W.  H.  Furness.  255 

WREATH,  THE Foreign  Quarterly  fievieu:  215 

UNKNOWN. 

BATTLE-SONG  OF  GUSTAVUS  ADOLPHUS  (Sivedish). 

Unknown.  207 
"  But  for  my  father's  angry  talking"  (Bohemian). 

Sir  John  Bowring.  128 
COMBAT  OF  HIALMAR  AND  ODDUR,  THE  (Icelandic). 

W.  Herbert.  380 

DEATH,  THE  UNIVERSAL  LOT  (Greek).     Francis  Hodgson.  309 

EPITAPH  (Greek) J.  H.  Merivale.  235 

FAREWELL  (Servian) Sir  John  Bowring.  129 

FISHER-BOY  URASHIMA,  THE  (Japanese). 

Basil  Hall  Chamberlain.  382 

MALBROUCK  (French) Francis  Mahony.  440 

ODE  TO  THE  CUCKOO  (Japanese).    Basil  Hall  Chamberlain.  74 

ON  FRIENDSHIP  (Greek) J.  H.  Merivale.  235 

SONG  OF  SUMMER,  THE  (Anglo-Saxon).    Thomas  Warton.  59 

•  To  DEATH  (German) Unknown.  280 

To  ROME  (Greek) J.  H.  Merivale.  75 

VIOLET,  THE  (Servian) Sir  John  Bowring.  68 


xxiv  Index  of  Authors. 


TRANSLATOR.  PACK 

UNKNOWN. 

WISHES  (Servian) Sir  John  Bowring.     129 

You  SAY  THAT  BEAUTY  is  A  ROSE  (Bohemian). 

Sir  John  Bowring.     128 

VARCHI,  BENEDETTO  (Italian),  born  1502,  died  1565. 
SONNET  ON  THE  TOMB  OF  PETRARCA. 

U.  S.  Literary  Gazette.     164 

VEGA  CARPIO,  LOPE   FELIX  DE  (Spanish),  born  1562,  died 
1635. 

TO-MORROW H.  W.  Longfellow.     375 

VILLEGAS,  ESTEVAN  MANUEL  DE  (Spanish),  born  1595,  died 

1669. 
ODE — '"Tis  sweet  in  the  green  Spring"       W.  C.  Bryant.       72 

VILLON,  FRANQOIS  (French),  born  1431,  died  about  1485. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  DEAD  LADIES.     Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.     175 
VIRGIL  (PuBLius  VIRGILIUS  MARO),  (Latin),  born  70  B.C., 
died  19  B.  c. 

POLLIO John  Dryden.     236 

VISSCHER,  MARIA  TESSELSCHADE  (Dutch),  born  1597,  died  1649. 

THE  NIGHTINGALE Sir  John  Bowring.      67 

VONDEL,  JOOST  VAN  DEN  (Dutch),  born  1587,  died  1659. 

To  Vossius Sir  John  Bowring.     179 

ZEDLITZ,  JOSEPH  CHRISTIAN  VON  (German),  born  1790,  died 
1862. 

THE  MIDNIGHT  REVIEW William  Bunt.     412 

ZIMOROWICZ,  SIMEON  (Polish),  born  1604,  died  1629. 

THE  INVITATION Sir  John  Boioring.     125 

ZONAS  OF  SARDIS  (Greek). 

To  THE  BEES W.  Hay.       32 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


THE  RETURN  OF 


HUSH'D  is  the  howl  of  wintry  breezes  wild  ; 
The  purple  hour  of  youthful  Spring  has  smiled  : 
A  livelier  verdure  clothes  the  teeming  earth  ; 
Buds  press  to  life,  rejoicing  in  their  birth  : 
The  laughing  meadows  drink  the  dews  of  night, 
And,  fresh  with  opening  roses,  glad  the  sight  : 
In  song  the  joyous  swains  responsive  vie  ; 
Wild  music  floats,  and  mountain  melody. 

Adventurous  seamen  spread  the  embosomed  sail 
O'er  waves  light  heaving  to  the  western  gale  ; 
While  village  youths  their  brows  with  ivy  twine, 
And  hail  with  song  the  promise  of  the  vine. 

In  curious  cells  the  bees  digest  their  spoil, 
When  vernal  sunshine  animates  their  toil, 
And  little  birds,  in  warblings  sweet  and  clear, 
Salute  thee,  Maia,  loveliest  of  the  year  : 
Thee  on  their  deeps  the  tuneful  halcyons  hail, 
In  streams  the  swan,  in  woods  the  nightingale. 

If  earth  rejoices,  with  new  verdure  gay, 
And  shepherds  pipe,  and  flocks  exulting  play, 
And  sailors  roam,  and  Bacchus  leads  his  throng, 
And  bees  to  toil,  and  birds  awake  to  song, 
Shall  the  glad  bard  be  mute  in  tuneful  Spring, 
And,  warm  with  love  and  joy,  forget  to  sing? 

MELEAQEB  (Greek). 

Translation  of  ROBERT  BLANIX 


26  Poems  of  Nature. 


WHEN  Spring  adorns  the  dewy  scene, 
How  sweet  to  walk  the  velvet  green, 
And  hear  the  west-wind's  gentle  sighs, 
As  o'er  the  scented  mead  it  flies  ! 
How  sweet  to  mark  the  pouting  vine, 
Ready  to  burst  in  tears  of  wine ; 
And  with  some  maid, who  breathes  but  love, 
To  walk,  at  noontide,  through  the  grove, 
Or  sit  in  some  cool,  green  recess, — 
Oh,  is  not  this  true  happiness  1 

AUACREON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  THOMAS  MOORE. 


in  the  city  be  rny  banquet  spread, 
But  in  sweet  meadows,  where  around  my  head 
The  zephyr  may  float  freely :  be  my  seat 
The  mossy  platform  of  some  green  retreat, 
Where  shrubs  and  creepers,  starting  at  my  side, 
May  furnish  cushion  smooth  and  carpet  wide. 
Let  wine  be  served  us,  and  the  warbling  lyre 
Trill  forth  soft  numbers  of  the  Muses'  choir ; 
That  we,  still  drinking,  and  our  hearts  contenting, 
And  still  to  dulcet  tones  new  hymns  inventing, 
May  sing  Jove's  bride,  from  whence  these  pleasures  come, 
The  guardian  goddess  of  our  island  home. 

NIC^ENETUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  3.  H.  MERIVALE. 


Poems  of  Nature.  27 


KETU'RN  Of1 


SEE  the  Spring  appears  in  view  ; 

The  Graces  showers  of  roses  strew. 

See  how  ocean's  wave  serene 

Smooths  the  limpid,  glassy  green  : 

With  oaring  feet  the  sea-duck  swims  ; 

The  stork  in  airy  journey  skims  : 

The  sun  shines  out  in  open  day  ; 

The  shadowy  clouds  are  roll'd  away  ; 

The  cultur'd  fields  are  smiling  bright 

In  verdant  gaiety  of  light: 

Earth's  garden  spreads  its  tender  fruits  ; 

The  juicy  olive  swelling  shoots  ; 

The  grape,  the  fount  of  Bacchus,  twines 

In  clusters,  red  with  embrj'o  wines  : 

Through  leaves,  through  boughs  it  bursts  its  way, 

And  buds,  and  ripens  on  the  day. 

ANACJBEON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


OJV  AJV  AJVCI&JYT  OAK. 

HAIL,  venerable  boughs,  that  in  mid  sky 
Spread  broad  and  deep  your  leafy  canopy  ! 
Hail,  cool,  refreshing  shade,  abode  most  dear 
To  the  sun-wearied  traveller,  wand'ring  near  ! 
Hail,  close  inwoven  bow'rs,  fit  dwelling-place 
For  insect  tribes  and  man's  imperial  race  ! 
Me  too,  reclining  in  your  green  retreat, 
Shield  from  the  blazing  day's  meridian  heat. 

ANTIPHJLUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


28  Poems  of  Nature. 


"  LOVELY  courier  of  the  sky, 
Whence  and  whither  dost  thou  fly, 
Scattering,  as  thy  pinions  play, 
Liquid  fragrance  all  the  way  ? 
Is  it  business  ?     Is  it  love? 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  gentle  Dove." — 
Soft  Anacreon's  vows  I  bear, 
Vows  to  Myrtale  the  fair : 
Graced  with  all  that  charm  the  heart, 
Blushing  nature,  smiling  art, 
Venus,  courted  by  an  ode, 
On  the  Bard  her  Dove  bestow'd. 
Vested  with  a  master's  right 
Now  Anacreon  rules  my  flight : 
As  the  letters  that  you  see, 
"Weighty  charge  consigned  to  me : 
Think  not  yet  my  service  hard, 
Joyless  task  without  reward  : 
Smiling  at  my  master's  gates, 
Freedom  my  return  awaits  : 
But  the  liberal  grant  in  vain 
Tempts  me  to  be  wild  again. 
Can  a  prudent  Dove  decline 
Blissful  bondage  such  as  mine; 
Over  hills  and  fields  to  roam, 
Fortune's  guest  without  a  home; 
Under  leaves  to  hide  one's  head, 
Slightly  shelter'd,  coarsely  fed? 
Now  my  better  lot  bestows 
Sweet  repast  and  soft  repose ; 
Now  the  generous  bowl  I  sip 


Poems  of  Nature.  29 


As  it  leaves  Anacreon's  lip ; 
Void  of  care,  and  free  from  dread, 
From  his  fingers  snatch  his  bread, 
Then  with  luscious  plenty  gay 
Bound  his  chambers  dance  and  play ; 
Or,  from  wine  as  courage  springs, 
O'er  his  face  expand  my  wings ; 
And  when  feast  and  frolic  tire, 
Drop  asleep  upon  his  lyre. 
This  is  all ;  be  quick  and  go, 
More  than  all  thou  can'st  not  know; 
Let  me  now  my  pinions  ply, — 
I  have  chatter'd  like  a  pye ! 

ANACREON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 

HAPPY  insect !  what  can  be 
In  happiness  compar'd  to  thee  ? 
Fed  with  nourishment  divine, 
The  dewy  morning's  gentle  wine  ! 
Nature  waits  upon  thee  still, 
And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill ; 
'Tis  filled  wherever  thou  dost  tread, 
Nature's  self's  thy  Ganymede. 
Thou  dost  drink,  and  dance,  and  sing, 
Happier  than  the  happiest  king  ! 
All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 
All  the  plants  belong  to  thee ; 
All  that  summer  hours  produce, 
Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 
Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plough ; 


30  Poems  of  Nature. 


Farmer  he,  and  landlord  tliou  ! 

Thou  dost  innocently  joy, 

Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy ; 

The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee, 

More  harmonious  than  he. 

Thee  country-hinds  with  gladness  hear, 

Prophet  of  the  ripen'd  year  ! 

Thee  Phoehus  loves,  and  does  inspire ; 

Phoebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 

To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  earth, 

Life's  no  longer  than  thy  mirth. 

Happy  insect,  happy,  thou 

Dost  neither  age  nor  winter  know ; 

But,  when  thou'st  drunk,  and  danc'd  and  sung 

Thy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among, 

(Voluptuous  and  wise  withal, 

Epicurean  animal !) — 

Sated  with  thy  summer  feast, 

Thou  retir'st  to  endless  rest. 

ANACREON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 


OJV  A   GftOrjtf  Of 

WHOE'ER  thou  art,  recline  beneath  the  shade 
By  never-fading  leaves  of  laurel  made ; 
And  here  awhile  thy  thirst  securely  slake 
With  the  pure  beverage  of  the  crystal  lake : 
So  shall  your  languid  limbs,  by  toil  opprest, 
And  summer's  burning  heat,  find  needful  rest, 
And  renovation  from  the  balmy  power 
That  stirs  and  breathes  within  this  verdant  bower. 

ANYTE  (Greek). 

Translation  of  FRANCIS  HODGSON. 


Poems  of  Nature.  31 


OJV  THE  ENTRANCE  TO  A   CA  TEftJV. 

STRANGER,  beneath  this  rock  thy  limbs  bestow — 
Sweet,  'mid  the  green  leaves,  breezes  whisper  here. 

Drink  the  cool  wave,  while  noontide  fervors  glow ; 
For  such  the  rest  to  wearied  pilgrim  dear. 

ANYTE  (Greek). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


THE  SEE. 

MANY -COLORED,  sunshine-loving,  spring-betokening  bee  ! 
Yellow  bee,  so  mad  for  love  of  early-blooming  flowers — 
Till  thy  waxen  cell  be  full,  fair  fall  thy  work  and  thee, 
Buzzing  round  the  sweetly-smelling  garden  plots  and  bowers. 

•  NICIAS  (Greek). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


TO  THE 


OH  shrill-voiced  insect  !  that,  with  dew-drops  sweet 

Inebriate,  dost  in  desert  woodlands  sing  ; 
Perch'd  on  the  spray-top  with  indented  feet, 

Thy  dusky  body's  echoings,  harp-like,  ring. 
Come,  dear  Cicada  !  chirp  to  all  the  grove, 

The  nymphs,  and  Pan,  a  new  responsive  strain; 
That  I,  in  noonday  sleep,  may  steal  from  love, 

Keclined  beneath  this  dark  o'erspreading  plane. 

MELEAGER  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


32  Poems  of  Nature. 


TO   THE  SEES. 

YE  nimble,  honey-making  bees,  the  flowers  are  in  their 

prime ; 
Come  now  and  taste  the  little  buds  of  sweetly-breathing 

thyme ; 

Or  tender  poppies  all  so  fair,  or  bits  of  raisins  sweet, 
Or  down  that  decks  the  apple-tribe,  or  fragrant  violet : 
Come  nibble  on,  your  vessels  store  with  honey  while  you 

can, 

In  order  that  the  hive-protecting,  bee-preserving  Pan 
May  have  a  tasting  for  himself ;  and  that  the  hand  so  rude, 
That  cuts  away  the  combs,  may  leave  for  yourselves  a  little 

food. 

ZONAS  OF  SAKDIS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  W.  HAY. 


OJV  si  SEE'S  JVEST. 

0  BEAUTIFUL  Bee-homestead  with  many  a  waxen  cell, 

Self-built  for  hanging,  so  it  seems,  that  airy  citadel ! 

An  unbought  blessing  to  man's  life,  which  neither  plough, 

nor  hoe, 

Nor  axe,  nor  crooked  sickle,  is  needed  to  bestow ; 
A  tiny  vessel — and  no  more — wherein  the  busy  bee, 
From  its  small  body,  liquid  sweets  distilleth  lavishly. 
Rejoice,  ye  blessed  creatures !  regaling  while  ye  rove, 
Winged  workers  of  Nectareous  food,  on  all  the  flowers  ye 

love. 

ANTIPHILUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  JOHN  WILSON. 


Poems  of  Nature.  33 


HYMN  TO   THE  J?rj?JVIJVG  STAft. 

MILD  star  of  eve,  whose  tranquil  beams 

Are  grateful  to  the  queen  of  love, 
Fair  planet,  whose  effulgence  gleams 

More  bright  than  all  the  host  above, 
And  only  to  the  moon's  clear  light 
Yields  the  first  honors  of  the  night ! 

All  hail,  thou  soft,  thou  holy  star, 

Thou  glory  of  the  midnight  sky, 
And  when  my  steps  are  wandering  far, 

Leading  the  shepherd-minstrelsy, 
Then,  if  the  moon  deny  her  ray, 
Oh  guide  me,  Hesper,  on  my  way  ! 

No  savage  robber  of  the  dark, 

No  foul  assassin  claims  thy  aid 
To  guide  his  dagger  to  its  mark, 

Or  light  him  on  his  plund'ring  trade ; 
My  gentle  errand  is  to  prove 
The  transports  of  requited  love. 

BIOS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


TO   THE  MOON. 

HEAVENLY  Selene  !  goddess  queen  ! 

That  shedd'st  abroad  thy  light ! 
Bull-horned  moon  !  air-habiting  ! 

Thou  wanderer  through  the  night! 
Moon,  bearer  of  the  nightly  torch ! 

Thou  star-encircled  maid ! 


34  Poems  of  Nature. 


Female,  at  once,  and  male  the  same  ; 

Still  fresh,  and  still  decay'd  ! 
Thou,  that  in  thy  steeds  delightest, 

As  they  whirl  thee  through  the  sky  ! 
Clothed  in  brightness  !  mighty  mother 

Of  the  rapid  years  that  fly  ! 
Fruit  dispenser  !  amber-visaged  ! 

Melancholy,  yet  serene  ! 
All-beholding !  sleep-enamor'd ! 

Still  with  trooping  planets  seen  ! 
Quiet-loving  !  who  in  pleasaunce 

And  in  plenty  tak'st  delight ! 
Joy-diffusing !  fruit-maturing ! 

Sparkling  ornament  of  night ! 
Swiftly-pacing !  ample-vested ! 

Star-bright !  all-divining  maid ! 
Come  benignant !  come  spontaneous  ! 

With  thy  starry  sheen  array'd  ! 
Sweetly-shining  !  save  us,  virgin  ! 

Give  thy  holy  suppliants  aid  ! 

ONOMACRITUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


OJV  T£T&  &AJYKS    OF1 


NOT  here,  0  thirsty  traveller,  stoop  to  drink  ; 
The  sun  has  warmed,  and  flocks  disturbed,  its  brink  ; 
But  climb  yon  upland,  where  the  heifers  play, 
Where  that  tall  pine  excludes  the  sultry  day  ; 
There  will  you  list  a  bubbling  rill  that  flows 
Down  the  cool  rock,  more  cold  than  Thracian  snows. 

LEONIDAS  OF  TARENTUM  (Greek). 

Translation  of  ROBERT  BLAND. 


Poems  of  Nature.  35 


OJV  AJY  ECZITSE  Of  THE  S&JV. 

NAUGHT,  now,  can  pass  belief ;  in  Nature's  ways 
No  strange  anomaly  our  wonder  raise. 
Th'  Olympian  Father  hangs  a  noon- day  night 
O'er  the  sun's  disk,  and  veils  its  glittering  light. 
Fear  falls  on  man.     Hence  miracles  before 
Incredible  are  counted  strange  no  more. 
Stand  not  amazed  if  beasts  exchange  the  wood 
With  dolphins;  and  exist  amidst  the  flood ; 
These  the  firm  land  forsake  for  sounding  waves, 
And  those  find  pleasure  in  the  mountain  caves. 

ABCHILOCHUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


TO  ZUCIVS  SEXTI&S. 

BY  Spring  and  Zephyr's  gladsome  sway 
Unloosed,  stern  "Winter  hastes  away. 
Again  the  vessel  tempts  the  sea; 
The  herds  again  bound  o'er  the  lea ; 
His  ingle-nook  the  hind  forsakes, 
And  frosts  no  longer  bleach  the  brakes. 
Beneath  the  moon,  o'er  grassy  meads 
The  sprightly  dance  soft  Venus  leads ; 
And,link'd,  the  nymphs'  and  graces'  train 
With  foot  alternate  beat  the  plain; 
While  Mulciber,  with  kindling  fires, 
The  Cyclops'  toilsome  forge  inspires. 

Now  round  the  brow  be  myrtle  twined 
In  verdant  braid ;  now  chaplets  bind 
Of  flowers,  from  earth's  freed  bosom  thrown 
The  sacrifice  now  lead  to  Faun, 


36  Poems  of  Nature. 


Lambkin,  or  "kid,  whiche'er  he  claim, 
In  grove  deep-hallow'd  with  his  name. 

Pale  Death  knocks  with  impartial  foot 
At  prince's  hall  and  peasant's  hut ; 
Warn'd,  Sestius,  by  life's  brief  amount, 
Forbear  on  distant  bliss  to  count : 
Soon,  soon  to  realms  of  night  away, 
Hurried,  where  fabled  spectres  play, 
Thou  shalt  'neath  Pluto's  shadowy  dome, 
Thyself  a  shadow,  thither  come ; 
No  more  shall  dice  allot  to  thee 
The  banquet's  jovial  sovereignty ; 
Nor  Chloe  more  shalt  thou  admire, 
The  virgin's  pride,  the  youth's  desire. 

HORACE  (Latin),  ODE  IV.,  BOOK  I. 

Translation  of  ARCHDEACON  WRANGHAM. 


TO    THALIA  KCHZ7S. 

BEHOLD  yon  mountain's  hoary  height, 
Made  higher  with  new  mounds  of  snow ; 

Again,  behold  the  winter  weight 
Oppress  the  laboring  woods  below : 

And  streams  with  icy  fetters  bound 

Benumb'd  and  cramp'd  to  solid  ground. 

With  well-heaped  logs  dissolve  the  cold 
And  feed  the  genial  hearth  with  fires ; 

Produce  the  wine  that  makes  us  bold, 
And  love  of  sprightly  wit  inspires. 

For  what  hereafter  shall  betide, 

God,  if  'tis  worth  his  care,  provide. 


Poems  of  Nature.  37 

Let  him  alone,  with  what  he  made, 

To  toss  and  turn  the  world  below ; 
At  his  command  the  storms  invade ; 

The  winds  by  his  commission  blow, 
Till,  with  a  nod,  he  bids  them  cease, 
And  then  the  calm  returns,  and  all  is  peace. 

To-morrow  and  her  works  defy; 

Lay  hold  upon  the  present  hour, 
And  snatch  the  pleasures  passing  by, 

To  put  them  out  of  Fortune's  power : 
Nor  Love,  nor  Love's  delights  disdain ; 
Whate'er  thou  gett'st  to-day  is  gain. 

Secure  those  golden  early  joys 

That  youth,  unsour'd  with  sorrow,  bears, 

Ere  withering  Time  the  taste  destroys 
With  sickness  and  unwieldy  years. 

For  active  sports,  for  pleasing  rest, 

This  is  the  time  to  be  possest ; 

The  best  is  but  in  season  best. 

The  appointed  hour  of  promis'd  bliss, 

The  pleasing  whisper  in  the  dark, 
The  half-unwilling  willing  kiss, 

The  laugh  that  guides  thee  to  the  mark, 
When  the  kind  nymph  would  coyness  feign, 
And  hides  but  to  be  found  again ; 
These,  these  are  joys,  the  gods  for  youth  ordain. 

HORACE  (Latin),  ODE  IX.,  BOOK  I. 

Translation  of  JOHN  DRYDEN. 


38  Poems  of  Nature. 


COUNTRY 


SAFE  roof  d  my  cottage  ;  swelling  rich  with  wine 
Hangs  from  the  twisted  elm.  my  cluster'd  vine. 
Boughs  glow  with  cherries,  apples  bend  my  wood  ; 
And  the  crush'd  olive  foams  with  juicy  flood. 
Where  my  light  beds  the  scattering  rivulet  drink, 
My  simple  pot-herbs  flourish  on  the  brink  ; 
And  poppies  smiling  wave  the  rosy  head 
That  yield  no  opiate  to  a  restless  bed. 
If  for  the  birds  I  weave  the  limed  snare, 
Or  for  the  startlish  deer  the  net  prepare, 
Or  with  a  slender  thread  the  fish  delude, 
No  other  wiles  disturb  these  woodlands  rude. 
Go  now  and  barter  life's  calm  stealing  days 
For  pompous  suppers,  that  with  luxury  blaze  : 
Pray  Heaven,  for  me  the  lot  may  thus  be  cast, 
And  future  time  glide  peaceful  as  the  past. 

AVIENUS  (Latin). 

Translation  of  SIE  C.  A.  ELTON. 


GROSES. 

'TWAS  Spring ;  the  morn  return'd  in  saffron  veil, 

And  breathed  a  nipping  coolness  in  the  gale. 

A  keener  air  had  harbinger'd  the  Dawn, 

That  drove  her  coursers  o'er  the  eastern  lawn. 

The  breezy  cool  allured  my  feet  to  stray, 

And  thus  anticipate  the  fervid  day. 

Through  the  broad  walks  I  trod  the  garden  bowers, 

And  roam'd,  refresh'd  against  the  noontide  hours. 

I  saw  the  hoary  dew's  congealing  drops 


Poems  of  Nature.  39 


Bend  the  tall  grass  and  vegetable  tops ; 

On  the  broad  leaves  play'd  bright  the  trembling  gems, 

And  airy  waters  bow'd  the  laden  steins. 

There  Psestan  roses  blush'd  before  my  view, 

Bedrop'd  with  early  morning's  freshening  dew ; 

The  sprinkled  pearls  on  every  rose-bush  lay, 

Anon  to  melt  before  the  beams  of  day. 

'Twere  doubtful,  if  the  blossoms  of  the  rose 

Had  robb'd  the  morning,  or  the  morning  those — 

In  hue,  in  tint,  the  same,  the  star  and  flower, 

For  both  confess  the  queen  of  beauty's  power. 

Perchance  their  sweets  the  same  :  but  this  more  nigh 

Exhales  its  breath ;  and  that  embalms  the  sky : 

Of  flower  and  star  the  goddess  is  the  same, 

And  both  she  tinged  with  hues  of  roseate  flame. 

I  saw  a  moment's  interval  divide 

The  rose  that  blossom'd  from  the  rose  that  died. 

This,  with  the  cap  of  tufted  moss,  look'd  green ; 

That,  tipp'd  with  reddening  purple,  peep'd  between : 

One  rear'd  its  obelisk  with  opening  swell, 

The  bud  unsheathed  its  crimson  pinnacle ; 

Another,  gathering  every  purfled  fold, 

Its  foliage  multiplied ;  its  blooms  unroll'd ; 

The  teeming  chives  shot  forth ;  the  petals  spread, 

The  bow-pot's  glory  rear'd  its  smiling  head : 

While  this,  that  ere  the  passing  moment  flew, 

Flam'd  forth  one  blaze  of  scarlet  on  the  view, 

Now  shook  from  withering  stalk  the  waste  perfume, 

Its  verdure  stript,  and  pale  its  faded  bloom. 

I  marvel'd  at  the  spoiling  flight  of  time, 

That  roses  thus  grew  old  in  earliest  prime. 

E'en  while  I  speak,  the  crimson  leaves  drop  round, 

And  a  red  brightness  veils  the  blushing  ground. 

These  forms,  these  births,  these  changes,  bloom,  decay, 


40  Poems  of  Nature. 


Appear  and  vanish  in  the  self-same  day. 

The  flower's  brief  grace,  oh  Nature  !  moves  my  sighs, 

Thy  gifts,  just  shown,  are  ravish'd  from  our  eyes. 

One  day,  the  rose's  age ;  and  while  it  blows 

In  dawn  of  youth,  it  withers  to  its  close. 

The  rose  the  glittering  sun  beheld,  at  morn, 

Spread  to  the  light  its  blossoms  newly  born, 

"When  in  his  round  he  looks  from  evening  skies, 

Already  droops  in  age,  and  fades,  and  dies. 

Yet  blest,  that,  soon  to  fade,  the  numerous  flower 

Succeeds  herself,  and  still  prolongs  her  hour. 

Oh  virgins  !  roses  cull,  while  yet  ye  may  : 

So  bloom  your  hours,  and  so  shall  haste  away. 

AUSONIUS  (Latin). 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


OJY 


BRIGHT  smil'd  the  morn,  till  o'er  its  head 
The  clouds  in  thicken'd  foldings  spread 

A  robe  of  sable  hue  ; 
Then  gathering  round  day's  golden  king, 
They  stretch'd  their  wide  o'ershadowing  wing, 

And  hid  him  from  our  view. 

The  rain  his  absent  beams  deplor'd 
And,  soften'd  into  weeping,  pour'd 

Its  tears  in  many  a  flood  ; 
The  lightning  laught  with  horrid  glare  ; 
The  thunder  growl'd  in  rage  ;  —  the  air 

In  silent  sorrow  stood. 

IBRAHIM  BEN  KHIRET  ABOU  ISAAC  (Arabian). 

Translation  of  3.  D.  CARLYLE. 


Poems  of  Nature.  41 


A   TURKISH  ODE. 

HEAR  how  the  nightingales,  on  every  spray, 
Hail  in  wild  notes  the  sweet  return  of  May  ! 
The  gale  that  o'er  yon  waving  almond  blows, 
The  verdant  bank  with  silver  blossoms  strows : 
The  smiling  season  decks  each  flowery  glade. 
Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  Spring  will  fade. 

What  gales  of  fragrance  scent  the  vernal  air ! 
Hills,  dales,  and  woods,  their  loveliest  mantles  wear. 
Who  knows  what  cares  await  that  fatal  day, 
When  ruder  gusts  shall  banish  gentle  May  1 
Ev'n  death,  perhaps,  our  valleys  will  invade. 
Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  Spring  will  fade. 

The  tulip  now  its  varied  hue  displays 

And  sheds,  like  Ahmed's  eye,  celestial  rays. 

Ah,  nation  ever  faithful,  ever  true, 

The  joys  of  youth,  while  May  invites,  pursue ! 

Will  not  these  notes  your  timorous  minds  persuade  ? 

Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  Spring  will  fade. 

The  sparkling  dewdrops  o'er  the  lilies  play, 
Like  orient  pearls,  or  like  the  beam  of  day. 
If  love  and  mirth  your  wanton  thoughts  engage 
Attend,  ye  nymphs,  (a  poet's  words  are  sage.) 
While  thus  you  sit  beneath  the  trembling  shade, 
Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  Spring  will  fade. 

The  fresh  blown  rose  like  Zeineb's  cheek  appears, 
When  pearls,  like  dewdrops,  glitter  in  her  ears. 
The  charms  of  youth  at  once  are  seen  and  past ; 

And  Nature  says,  "  They  are  too  sweet  to  last." 
4 


42  Poems  of  Nature. 


So  blooms  the  rose ;  and  so  the  blushing  maid  ! 
Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  Spring  will  fade. 

See  yon  anemonies  their  leaves  unfold, 

With  rubies  flaming,  and  with  living  gold  ! 

"While  crystal  showers  from  weeping  clouds  descend, 

Enjoy  the  presence  of  thy  tuneful  friend. 

Now,  while  the  wines  are  brought,  the  sofa's  lay'd, 

Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  Spring  will  fade. 

The  plants  no  more  are  dried,  the  meadows  dead, 
No  more  the  rose-bud  hangs  her  pensive  head : 
The  shrubs  revive  in  valleys,  meads  and  bowers, 
And  every  stalk  is  diadem'd  with  flowers : 
In  silken  robes  each  hillock  stands  array'd. 
Be  gay  :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  Spring  will  fade. 

Clear  drops  each  morn  impearl  the  rose's  bloom, 
And  from  its  leaf  the  Zephyr  drinks  perfume  ; 
The  dewy  buds  expand  their  lucid  store  : 
Be  this  our  wealth  :  ye  damsels  ask  no  more. 
Though  wise  men  envy,  and  though  fools  upbraid, 
Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  Spring  will  fade. 

The  dewdrops,  sprinkled  by  the  musky  gale, 
Are  changed  to  essence  ere  they  reach  the  dale. 
The  mild  blue  sky  a  rich  pavilion  spreads, 
Without  our  labor,  o'er  our  favored  heads. 
Let  others  toil  in  war,  in  arts,  or  trade, 
Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  Spring  will  fade. 

Late  gloomy  winter  chill'd  the  sullen  air, 
Till  Soliman  arose,  and  all  was  fair. 
Soft  in  his  reign  the  notes  of  love  resound, 
And  pleasure's  rosy  cup  goes  freely  round. 


Poems  of  Nature.  43 


Here  on  the  bank,  which  mantling  vines  o'ershade, 
Be  gay  :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  Spring  will  fade. 

May  this  rude  lay,  from  age  to  age  remain, 
A  true  memorial  of  this  lovely  train. 
Come,  charming  maid,  and  hear  thy  poet  sing, 
Thyself  the  rose,  and  he  the  bird  of  Spring. 
Love  bids  him  sing,  and  Love  will  be  obey'd. 
Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  Spring  will  fade. 

MESIHI  (Turkish). 

Translation  of  SIR  WILLIAM  JONES 


ODE  TO 


STORMS  ride  the  air,  and  veil  the  sky  in  clouds, 
And  chase  the  thundering  streams  athwart  the  land  : 
Bare  stand  the  woods  ;  the  social  linden's  leaves 
Far  o'er  the  valleys  whirl 

The  vine,  —  a  withered  stalk  !     But  why  bewail 
The  godlike  vine  ?    Friends,  come  and  quaff  its  blood  ! 
Let  Autumn  with  his  emptied  horn  retire; 
Bid  fir-crowned  Winter  hail  ! 

He  decks  the  flood  with  adamantine  shield, 
Which  laughs  to  scorn  the  shafts  of  day.     Amazed, 
The  tenants  of  the  wood  new  blossoms  view  : 
Strange  lilies  strew  the  ground. 

No  more  in  tottering  gondolas  the  brides 
Tremble  ;  on  gliding  cars  they  boldly  scud  : 
Hid  in  her  fur-clad  neck,  the  favorite's  hand 
Asks  an  unneeded  warmth. 


44  Poems  of  Nature. 


No  more,  like  fishes,  plunge  the  bathing  boys ; 
On  steel-winged  shoes  they  skim  the  hardened  wave : 
The  spouse  of  Venus  in  the  glittering  blade 
The  lightning's  swiftness  hid. 

O  Winter  !  call  thy  coldest  east-wind ;  drive 
The  lingering  warriors  from  Bohemia  back  : 
With  them  my  Kleist ;  for  him  Lycoris  stays, 
And  his  friend's  tawny  wine. 

CABL  WILHELM  RAMLER  (German). 

Translation  c/  W.  TAYLOB. 


SOJVG. 

TELL  me,  where's  the  violet  fled, 

Late  so  gayly  blowing ; 
Springing  'neath  fair  Flora's  tread, 

Choicest  sweets  bestowing  ? — 
Swain,  the  vernal  scene  is  o'er, 
And  the  violet  blooms  no  more  ! 

Say,  where  hides  the  blushing  rose, 
Pride  of  fragrant  morning ; 

Garland  meet  for  beauty's  brows ; 
Hill  and  dale  adorning  ? — 

Gentle  maid,  the  summer's  fled, 

And  the  hapless  rose  is  dead ! 

Bear  me,  then,  to  yonder  rill, 

Late  so  freely  flowing, 
Watering  many  a  daffodil 

On  its  margin  glowing. — 
Sun  and  wind  exhaust  its  store ; 
Yonder  rivulet  glides  no  more  ! 


Poems  of  Nature.  45 


Lead  me  to  the  bowery  shade, 

Late  with  roses  flaunting; 
Loved  resort  of  youth  and  maid, 

Amorous  ditties  chanting. — 
Hail  and  storm  with  fury  shower ; 
Leafless  mourns  the  rifled  bower ! 

Say,  where  bides  the  village  maid, 

Late  yon  cot  adorning  ? 
Oft  I've  met  her  in  the  glade, 

Fair  and  fresh  as  morning. — 
Swain,  how  short  is  beauty's  bloom ! 
Seek  her  in  her  grassy  tomb  ! 

Whither  roves  the  tuneful  swain, 

Who,  of  rural  pleasures, 
Kose  and  violet,  rill  and  plain, 

Sung  in  deftest  measures  ? — 
Maiden,  swift  life's  vision  flies, 
Death  has  closed  the  poet's  eyes ! 

JOHANN  GEOEO  JACOBI  (German). 

Translation  of  BERESFOBIX 


NIG  JIT- SONG. 

THE  moon  is  up  in  splendor, 
And  golden  stars  attend  her ; 

The  heavens  are  calm  and  bright ; 
Trees  cast  a  deepening  shadow, 
And  slowly  off  the  meadow 

A  mist  is  rising,  silver- white. 


46  Poems  of  Nature. 


Night's  curtains  now  are  closing 
Bound  half  a  world,  reposing 

In  calm  and  holy  trust ; 
All  seems  one  vast,  still  chamber, 
Where  weary  hearts  remember 
No  more  the  sorrows  of  the  dust. 


MATTHIAS  CLAUDIUS  (German). 

Translation  of  C.  T.  BROOKS. 


TO 


FLUTTER,  flutter  gently  by, 
Little  motley  dragon-fly, 

On  thy  four  transparent  wings  ! 
Hover,  hover  o'er  the  rill, 
And  when  weary  sit  thee  still 

Where  the  water-lily  springs  ! 

More  than  half  thy  little  life, 
Free  from  passion,  free  from  strife, 

Underneath  the  wave  was  sweet  ; 
Cool  and  calm,  content  to  dwell, 
Shrouded  by  thy  pliant  shell, 

In  a  dank  and  dim  retreat. 

Now  the  nymph  transformed  may  roam, 
A  sylph  in  her  aerial  home, 

Where'er  the  zephyrs  shall  invite  ; 
Love  is  now  thy  curious  care, 
Love  that  dwells  in  sunny  air, 

But  thy  very  love  is  flight. 


Poems  of  Nature.  47 


Heedless  of  thy  coming  doom, 
O'er  thy  birthplace  and  thy  tomb 

Flutter,  little  mortal,  still ! 
Though  beside  thy  gladdest  hour 
Fate's  destroying  mandates  lower, 

Length  of  life  but  lengthens  ill. 

Confide  thy  offspring  to  the  stream, 
That,  when  new  summer  suns  shall  gleam, 

They,  too,  may  quit  their  watery  cell ; 
Then  die  ! — I  see  each  weary  limb 
Declines  to  fly,  declines  to  swim : 

Thou  lovely  short-lived  sylph,  farewell ! 

JOHANN  GOTTFRIED  VON  HERDER  (German). 

Translation  of  W.  TAYLOR. 


OF  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

SHE  is  no  more,  who  bade  the  May-month  hail; 

Alas  !  no  more  ! 
The  songstress  who  enlivened  all  the  vale, — 

Her  songs  are  o'er ; 
She,  whose  sweet  tones,  in  golden  evening  hours, 

Rang  through  my  breast, 
When,  by  the  brook  that  murmured  'mong  the  flowers, 

I  lay  at  rest. 

How  richly  gurgled  from  her  deep,  full  throat 

The  silvery  lay, 
Till  in  her  caves  sweet  Echo  caught  the  note, 

Far,  far  away ! 
Then  was  the  hour  when  village  pipe  and  song 

Sent  up  their  sound, 
And  dancing  maidens  lightly  tripped  along 

The  moonlit  ground. 


48  Poems  of  Nature. 


A  youth  lay  listening  on  the  green  hill-side, 

Far  down  the  grove, 
While  on  his  rapt  face  hung  a  youthful  bride 

In  speechless  love. 
Their  hands  were  locked  oft  as  thy  silvery  strain 

Rang  through  the  vale; 
They  heeded  not  the  merry,  dancing  train, 

Sweet  nightingale  ! 

They  listened  thee  till  village  bells  from  far 

Chimed  on  the  ear, 
And,  like  a  golden  fleece,  the  evening  star 

Beamed  bright  and  clear  ; 
Then,  in  the  cool  and  fanning  breeze  of  May, 

Homeward  they  stole, 
Full  of  sweet  thoughts,  breathed,  by  thy  tender  lay, 

Through  the  deep  soul. 

LUDWIO  HEINRICH  CHRISTOPH  HOLTY  (German). 

Translation,  of  C.  T.  BKOOKS. 


HAPPY  the  man  who  has  the  town  escaped  ! 

To  him  the  whistling  trees,  the  murmuring  brooks, 

The  shining  pebbles,  preach 

Virtue's  and  wisdom's  lore. 

The  whispering  grove  a  holy  temple  is 
To  him,  where  God  draws  nigher  to  his  soul  ; 
Each  verdant  sod  a  shrine, 
Whereby  he  kneels  to  Heaven. 

The  nightingale  on  him  sings  slumber  down,  — 
The  nightingale  rewakes  him,  fluting  sweet, 

When  shines  the  lovely  red 

Of  morning  through  the  trees. 


Poems  of  Nature.  49 


Then  he  admires  thee  in  the  plain,  0  God ! — 
In  the  ascending  pomp  of  dawning  day, — 

Thee  in  thy  glorious  sun, — 

The  worm, — the  budding  branch  : 

Where  coolness  gushes,  in  the  waving  grass, 
Or  o'er  the  flowers  streams  the  fountain,  rests : 

Inhales  the  breath  of  prime, 

The  gentle  airs  of  eve. 

His  straw-decked  thatch,  where  doves  DasK  in  the  sun, 
And  play  and  hop,  invites  to  sweeter  rest 

Than  golden  halls  of  state 

Or  beds  of  down  afford. 

To  him  the  plumy  people  sporting  chirp, 
Chatter,  and  whistle,  on  his  basket  perch, 

And  from  his  quiet  hand 

Pick  crumbs,  or  peas,  or  grains. 

Oft  wanders  he  alone,  and  thinks  on  death ; 
And  in  the  village  churchyard  by  the  graves 

Sits,  and  beholds  the  cross, — 

Death's  waving  garland  there, — 

The  stone  beneath  the  elders,  where  a  text 
Of  Scripture  teaches  joyfully  to  die, — 

And  with  his  scythe  stands  Death, — 

An  angel,  too,  with  palms. 

Happy  the  man  who  thus  hath  'scaped  the  town ! 
Him  did  an  angel  bless  when  he  was  born, — 

The  cradle  of  the  boy 

With  flowers  celestial  strewed. 

LUDWIG  HEINBICH  CHRISTOPH  HOLTY  (German). 

Translation  in  ERASER'S  MAGAZINE; 


50  Poems  of  Nature. 


TO  THE  SEA. 

THOU  boundless,  shining,  glorious  Sea, 
With  ecstasy  I  gaze  on  thee ; 
Joy,  joy  to  him  whose  early  beam 
Kisses  thy  lip,  bright  Ocean-stream ! 

Thanks  for  the  thousand  hours,  old  Sea, 
Of  sweet  communion  held  with  thee ; 
Oft,  as  I  gazed,  thy  billowy  roll 
Woke  the  deep  feelings  of  my  soul. 

Drunk  with  the  joy,  thou  deep-toned  Sea, 
My  spirit  swells  to  Heaven  with  thee  ; 
Or,  sinking  with  thee,  seeks  the  gloom 
Of  nature's  deep,  mysterious  tomb. 

At  evening,  when  the  sun  grows  red, 
Descending  to  his  watery  bed, 
The  music  of  thy  murmuring  deep 
Soothes  e'en  the  weary  earth  to  sleep. 

Then  listens  thee  the  evening  star, 
So  sweetly  glancing  from  afar ; 
And  Luna  hears  thee,  when  she  breaks 
Her  light  in  million-colored  flakes. 

Oft,  when  the  noonday  heat  is  o'er, 
I  seek  with  joy  the  breezy  shore, 
Sink  on  thy  boundless,  billowy  breast, 
And  cheer  me  with  refreshing  rest. 

The  poet,  child  of  heavenly  birth, 
Is  suckled  by  the  mother  Earth ; 
But  thy  blue  bosom,  holy  Sea, 
Cradles  his  infant  fantasy. 


Poems  of  Nature.  51 


The  old  blind  minstrel  on  the  shore 
Stood  listening  thy  eternal  roar, 
And  golden  ages,  long  gone  by, 
Swept  bright  before  his  spirit's  eye. 

On  wing  of  swan  the  holy  flame 
Of  melodies  celestial  came, 
And  Iliad  and  Odyssey 
Rose  to  the  music  of  the  Sea. 

FEIEDRICH  LEOPOLD,  COUNT  STOLBERO  (German). 

Translation  of  C.  T.  BROOKS. 


THE 

BRIGHT  with  the  golden  shine  of  heaven  plays 

On  tender  blades  the  dew ; 
And  the  spring-landscape's  trembling  likeness  sways 

Clear  in  the  streamlet's  blue. 

Fair  is  the  rocky  fount,  the  blossomed  hedge, 

Groves  stained  with  golden  light ; 
Fair  is  the  star  of  eve,  that  on  the  edge 

Of  purple  clouds  shines  bright. 

Fair  is  the  meadow's  green, — the  valley's  copse, — 

The  hillock's  dress  of  flowers, — 
The  alder-brook, — the  reed-encircled  pond, 

O'er-snowed  with  blossom-showers. 

This  manifold  world  of  life  is  held  in  one 

By  Love's  eternal  band  : 
The  glowworm  and  the  fire-sea  of  tha  sun 

Sprang  from  one  Father's  hand. 


52  Poems  of  Nature. 


Thou  beckonest,  Almighty  !  from  the  tree 

The  blossom's  leaf  doth  fall ; — 
Thou  beckonest, — and  in  immensity 

Is  quenched  a  solar  ball ! 

FEIEDBICH  VON  MATTHISSON  (German). 

Translator  PNKNOWK. 


CHORUS  OF  SPIRITS. 

WHEN  the  moist  and  balmy  gale 

Round  the  verdant-meadow  sighs, 
Odors  sweet  in  misty  veil 

At  the  twilight  hour  arise. 
Murmurings  soft  of  calm  repose 

Rock  the  heart  to  child-like  rest, 
And  the  day's  bright  portals  close 

On  the  eyes  with  toil  oppressed. 

Night  already  reigns  o'er  all, 

Strangely  star  is  link'd  to  star ; 
Planets  mighty,  sparklings  small, 

Glitter  near,  and  gleam  afar ; 
Gleam  above  in  clearer  night, 

Glitter  in  the  glassy  sea ; 
Pledging  pure  and  calm  delight, 

Rules  the  moon  in  majesty. 

Now  each  well  known  hour  is  over, 

Joy  and  grief  have  pass'd  away; 
Feel  betimes !  thou'lt  then  recover : 

Trust  the  new-born  eye  of  day. 
Vales  grow  verdant,  hillocks  teem, 

Shady  nooks  and  bushes  yield, 
And  with  waving,  silvery  gleam, 

Rocks  the  harvest  in  the  field. 


Poems  of  Nature.  53 


Wouldst  thou  wish  for  wish  obtain, 

Look  upon  yon  glittering  ray  ! 
Lightly  on  thee  lies  the  chain, 

Cast  the  shell  of  sleep  away ! 
Tarry  not,  but  be  thou  bold, 

When  the  many  loiter,  still ; 
All  with  ease  may  be  controll'd 

By  the  man  of  daring  will. 

JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE  (German),  FROM  FAUST,  PART  II. 

Translation  of  E.  A.  BOWRING. 


STftHYG. 

LOOK  all  around  thee  !     How  the  spring  advances ! 

New  life  is  playing  through  the  gay,  green  trees ; 
See  how,  in  yonder  bower,  the  light  leaf  dances 

To  the  bird's  tread,  and  to  the  quivering  breeze  ! 
How  every  blossom  in  the  sunlight  glances  ! 

The  winter-frost  to  his  dark  cavern  flees, 
And  earth,  warm-wakened,  feels  through  every  vein 
The  kindling  influence  of  the  vernal  rain. 

Now  silvery  streamlets,  from  the  mountain  stealing, 
Dance  joyously  the  verdant  vales  along ; 

Cold  fear  no  more  the  songster's  tongue  is  sealing, 
Down  in  the  thick,  dark  grove  is  heard  his  song ; 

And,  all  their  bright  and  lovely  hues  revealing, 
A  thousand  plants  the  field  and  forest  throng ; 

Light  comes  upon  the  earth  in  radiant  showers, 

And  mingling  rainbows  play  among  the  flowers. 

LUDWIG  TIECK  (German). 

Translation  of  C.  T   BROOKS. 


54:  Poems  of  Nature. 


SOJVG. 

AUTUMN  winds  are  sighing, 
Summer  glories  dying, 

Harvest  time  is  nigh. 
Cooler  breezes,  quivering, 
Through  the  pine-groves  shivering, 

Sweep  the  troubled  sky. 

See  the  fields,  how  yellow  ! 
Clusters,  bright  and  mellow, 

Gleam  on  every  hill  ; 
Nectar  fills  the  fountains, 
Crowns  the  sunny  mountains, 

Euns  in  every  rill. 

Now  the  lads  are  springing, 
Maidens  blithe  are  singing, 

Swells  the  harvest  strain  : 
Every  field  rejoices, 
Thousand  thankful  voices 

Mingle  on  the  plain. 

Then  when  day  declineth, 
And  the  mild  moon  shineth, 

Tabors  sweetly  sound  ; 
And,  while  they  are  sounding, 
Fairy  feet  are  bounding 

O'er  the  moonlit  ground. 

JOHANN  GAUDENZ  VON  SALIS  (German). 

Translation  of  C.  T.  BROOKS. 


THE  JF£O  WEARS' 

ON  the  soft  cushions  of  a  couch  of  down 
Slumbers  the  maid  imprisoned  in  repose, 

Close  droop  the  eyelashes,  profuse  and  brown, 
Her  cheek  is  tinted  like  a  full-blown  rose. 


Poems  of  Nature.  55 


Hard  by  there  shimmers  in  the  smothered  light 
A  vase  of  choicest  ornament  and  mould, 

And  in  the  vase  are  fresh-cut  flowers,  and  bright, 
Fragrant  to  smell,  and  various  to  behold. 

Damp  are  the  heats  that,  broodingly  and  dull, 
Flow  and  flow  on  throughout  the  chamber  small ; 

Summer  has  scared  away  the  tender  cool, 

Yet  fastened  stand  the  casements  one  and  all. 

Stillness  around  and  deepest  silence  lowers ; 

Suddenly,  hark  !  a  whisper  as  of  change ; 
Heard  in  the  tender  stems,  heard  in  the  flowers, 

It  lisps  and  nestles  eagerly  and  strange. 

Swing  from  the  cups  that  tremble  on  those  stems 

The  little  spirits,'  the  embodied  scents, 
Some  bearing  shields,  some  topped  Avith  diadems, 

Delicate  mists  their  robes  and  ornaments. 

From  the  flushed  bosom  of  the  queenly  Eose 

Arises  gracefully  a  slender  lady ; 
Pearls  glisten  in  her  hair,  that  freely  flows 

As  dewdrops  glisten  where  the  copse  is  shady. 

Forth  from  the  visor  of  the  "  Helmet  plant " 

A  keen-faced  knight  steps  'mid  the  dark  green  leaves, 

His  presence  breathing  high  chivalric  vaunt, 

Complete  in  steel  he  shines,  from  crest  to  greaves. 

Over  his  morion,  nodding  waywardly, 

Hangs  heron  plumage,  grey,  and  silver  pale, 

Leaving  the  "  Lily  "  with  sick,  languid  eye, 
A  wood  nymph,  thin  as  gossamer  her  veiL 


56  Poems  of  Nature. 


Out  of  the  "  Turk  cup  "  comes  a  swarthy  Moor 
Wearing  his  flaunting  robes  with  scornful  show, 

On  his  green  turban  glitters,  fixed  before, 
The  golden  radiance  of  the  crescent  bow. 

Forth  from  the  "  Crown  Imperial,"  bold  and  tall, 
Sceptre  in  hand  appears  an  ermined  king, 

From  the  blue  "  Iris  "  girt  with  falchions  all 
His  hunters  troop,  green- vested  like  the  spring. 

Sullenly  twirling  down  from  the  "  Narciss," 
A  youthful  form  with  silent  sorrow  laden 

Steps  to  the  bed  to  print  his  fevered  kiss 
Upon  the  red  lips  of  the  sleeping  maiden. 

The  other  spirits  crowding  press  and  swing 
All  round  the  couch  in  many  circles  gay, 

They  swing  and  press  themselves  and  softly  sing 
Over  the  sleeper  their  mysterious  lay ; — 

Maiden,  0  !  cruel  maiden !  thou  hast  torn 
Up  from  the  earth  our  every  slender  tie, 

And,  in  this  gaudy-colored  shard  forlorn, 
Left  us  to  weaken,  wither,  fade,  and  die. 

Alas !  how  happy  once  was  our  repose 
On  the  maternal  bosom  of  the  earth ; 

Where  through  the  tall  tree-tops  that  o'er  us  rose, 
The  sun  made  vistas  to  behold  our  mirth. 

The  balmy  spring  with  many  a  gentle  breeze 
Cooled  our  weak  stems  that  to  his  bidding  bent, 

At  eve,  descending  under  the  still  trees, 
How  blissful  was  our  fairy  merriment. 


Poems  of  Nature.  57 


Clear  on  us  then  fell  Heaven's  own  dew  and  rain, 
Foul  water  now  surrounds  us  stagnantly ; 

We  fade,  and  we  shall  die,  but  not  in  vain 
If,  ere  we  pass,  our  vengeance  light  on  thee. 

The  spirits'  song  is  hushed,  their  errand  told, 
Bending,  around  the  sleeper's  couch  they  go ; 

And,  with  the  brooding  silences  of  old, 
Returns  again  the  whispering  soft  and  low. 

Hark  !  how  the  rustling  rises  round  the  wreath, 
How  glow  her  cheeks  instinctive  of  their  doom ; 

See  how  upon  her  all  the  spirits  breathe, 

How  the  scents  undulate  throughout  the  room ! 

The  slanted  sparkles  of  the  western  day 
Smiting  the  room,  each  spirit  vanisheth ; 

Upon  the  cushions  of  the  couch  she  lay, 
As  beautiful,  and  ah  !  as  cold  as  death. 

One  faded  blossom,  lying  all  alone, 

Lends  to  her  cheek  a  tender  tint  of  red, 
With  her  wan  sisters  sleeps  that  hapless  one, 

Oh !  fatal  breath  of  flowers  !  the  maid  is  dead. 

FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH  (German). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


Flft-TREE,  AN®   THE  TALM. 

A  LONELY  fir-tree  standeth 

On  a  height  where  north  winds  blow ; 
It  sleepeth  with  whiten'd  garment, 

Enshrouded  by  ice  and  snow. 


58  Poems  of  Nature. 


It  dreameth  of  a  palm  tree, 

That  far  in  the  Eastern  land, 
Lonely  and  silent,  mourneth 

On  its  burning  shelf  of  sand. 

HEINRICH  HEINE  (German). 

Translation  of  W.  W.  STORY. 


TIOLET. 

UPON  the  mead  a  violet  stood, 
Retiring,  and  of  modest  mood, 

In  truth,  a  violet  fair. 
Then  came  a  youthful  shepherdess, 
And  roam'd  with  sprightly  joyousness, 
And  blithely  woo'd 

With  carols  sweet  the  air. 

"Ah  !  "  thought  the  violet,  "had  I  been 
For  but  the  smallest  moment  e'en 

Nature's  most  beauteous  flower, 
Till  gather'd  by  my  love  and  press'd 
When  weary,  'gainst  her  gentle  breast, 
For  e'en,  for  e'en 

One  quarter  of  an  hour  ! " 

Alas  !  alas  !  the  maid  drew  nigh, 
The  violet  fail'd  to  meet  her  eye, 

She  crush'd  the  violet  sweet. 
It  sank  and  died,  yet  murmur'd  not ; 
"  And  if  I  die,  oh,  happy  lot, 
For  her  I  die 

And  at  her  very  feet ! " 

JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE  (German). 

Translation  of  E.  A.  BOWRING. 


Poems  of  Nature.  59 


THE  SONG  Of1 

SUMMER  is  a  coming  in, 

Loud  sing,  cuckow; 
Groweth  seed,  and  bloweth  mead, 

And  springeth  the  wood  now. 

Sing,  cuckow,  cuckow. 

Ewe  bleateth  after  lamb, 

Loweth  calf  after  cow, 
Bullock  starteth,  buck  departeth; 

Merry  sing,  cuckow, 

Cuckow,  cuckow, 
"Well  singeth  the  cuckow, 
Nor  cease  to  sing  now; 

Sing,  cuckow,  now, 

Sing,  cuckow. 

UNKNOWN  (Anglo-Saxon). 
Translation  of  THOMAS  WAKTON 


THE 

WHAT  whispers  so  strange,  at  the  hour  of  midnight, 
From  the  aspen's  leaves  trembling  so  wildly  ? 

Why  in  the  lone  wood  sings  it  sad,  when  the  bright 
Full-moon  beams  upon  it  so  mildly  ? 

It  soundeth  as  'mid  the  harp-strings  the  wind-gust 
Or  like  sighs  of  ghosts  wandering  in  sorrow  ; 

In  the  meadow  the  small  flowers  hear  it,  and  must 
With  tears  close  themselves  till  the  morrow. 

"  0,  tell  me,  poor  wretch,  why  thou  shiverest  so, — 
Why  the  moans  of  distraction  thou  pourest ; 

Say,  can  thy  heart  harbor  repentance  and  woe  ? 
Can  sin  reach  the  child  of  the  forest? " 


60  Poems  of  Nature. 


"  Yes,"  sighed  forth  the  tremulous  voice, — "  for  thy  race 

Has  not  alone  fallen  from  its  station; 
Not  alone  art  thou  seeking  for  comfort  and  grace, 

Nor  alone  art  thou  called  to  salvation. 

"  I've  heard,  too,  the  voice,  which  with  Heaven  reconciled 

The  earth  to  destruction  devoted ; 
But  the  storm  from  my  happiness  hurried  me  wild, 

Though  round  me  joy's  melodies  floated. 

"  By  Kedron  I  stood,  and  the  bright  beaming  eye 

I  viewed  of  the  pitying  Power; 
Each  tree  bowed  its  head,  as  the  Saviour  passed  by, 

But  I  deigned  not  my  proud  head  to  lower. 

"  I  towered  to  the  cloud,  whilst  the  lilies  sang  sweet, 

And  the  rose  bent  its  stem  in  devotion ; 
I  strewed  not  my  leaves  'fore  the  Holy  One's  feet, 

Nor  bough  nor  twig  set  I  in  motion. 

"  Then  sounded  a  sigh  from  the  Saviour's  breast ; 

And  I  quaked,  for  that  sigh  through  me  darted ; 
'  Quake  so  till  I  come  ! '  said  the  voice  of  the  Blest ; 

My  repose  then  for  ever  departed. 

"And  now  must  I  tremble  by  night  and  by  day, 

For  me  there  no  moment  of  ease  is; 
I  must  sigh  with  regret  in  such  dolorous  way, 

Whilst  each  floweret  can  smile  when  it  pleases. 

"  And  tremble  shall  I  till  the  Last  Day  arrive, 

And  I  view  the  Kedeemer  returning ; 
My  sorrow  and  punishment  long  will  survive, 

Till  the  world  shall  in  blazes  be  burning." 


Poems  of  Nature.  61 


So  whispers  the  doomed  one  at  midnight ;  its  tone 

Is  that  of  ghosts  wandering  in  sorrow ; 
The  small  flowers  hear  it  within  the  wood  lone 

And  with  tears  close  themselves  till  the  morrow. 

BEKNHABD  SEVEKIN  INGEMANN  (Danish). 

Translation  in  FORTNIGHTLY  REVIEW. 


THE  MORNING   WALK. 

To  the  beach-grove  with  so  sweet  an  air 

It  beckoned  me. 
O  earth  !  that  never  the  cruel  ploughshare 

Had  furrowed  thee ! 
In  their  dark  shelter  the  flowerets  grew, 

Bright  to  the  eye, 
And  smiled  by  my  foot  on  the  cloudlets  blue 

Which  decked  the  sky. 


O  lovely  field,  and  forest  fair, 

And  meads  grass-clad ! 
Her  bride-bed  Freya  everywhere 

Enamelled  had. 
The  corn-flowers  rose  in  azure  band 

From  earthy  cell ; 
Naught  else  could  I  do,  but  stop  and  stand, 

And  greet  them  well. 

"  Welcome  on  earth's  green  breast  again, 

Ye  flowerets  dear ! 
In  spring  how  charming  'mid  the  grain 

Your  heads  ye  rear  ! 


62  Poems  of  Nature. 


Like  stars  'midst  lightning's  yellow  ray 

Ye  shine,  red,  blue  : 
0,  how  your  summer  aspect  gay 

Delights  my  view  ! " 

"  0  poet !  poet !  silence  keep, — 

God  help  thy  case  ! 
Our  owner  holds  us  sadly  cheap, 

And  scorns  our  race. 
Each  time  he  sees,  he  calls  us  scum, 

Or  worthless  tares, 
Hell-weeds,  that  but  to  vex  him  come 

'Midst  his  corn-ears." 


"0  wretched  mortals ! — 0  wretched  man ! — 

O  wretched  crowd  ! — 
No  pleasures  ye  pluck,  no  pleasures  ye  plan, 

In  life's  lone  road, — 
Whose  eyes  are  blind  to  the  glories  great 

Of  the  works  of  God, 
And  dream  that  the  mouth  is  the  nearest  gate 

To  joy's  abode. 

"  Come,  flowers !  for  we  to  each  other  belong ; 

Come,  graceful  elf ! 
And  around  my  lute  in  sympathy  strong 

Now  wind  thyself ; 
And  quake  as  if  moved  by  Zephyr's  wing, 

'Neath  the  clang  of  the  chord, 
And  a  morning  song  with  glee  we'll  sing 

To  our  Maker  and  Lord." 

ADAM  GOTTLOB  OEHLENSCHLAGER  (Danish). 

Translation  in  FOREIGN  QUARTERLY  REVIEW. 


Poems  of  Nature.  63 


COJYT&JVT. 

MY  life  is  like  a  flowery  spring 
Of  calmness,  liberty,  and  peace ; 

I  mount  not  high  on  passion's  wing, 
I  sink  not  deep  in  recklessness; 

And  noisy  joys,  where'er  they  be, 

Have  no  attractive  charms  for  me. 

The  marble  busts,  the  statues  tall 
Of  bronze,  I  envy  not :  be  mine 

A  simple  home,  whose  snowy  wall 
The  smiling  graces  may  enshrine. 

Tho'  gold  may  deck  the  rich  man's  roof, 

It  is  not  time  nor  sorrow-proof. 

Pomona  dwells  my  cottage  near, 
And  leads  sweet  Flora  in  her  hand ; 

My  trees  the  richest  offerings  bear — 
Uncoveted  their  treasures  stand, 

And  in  their  falling  leaves  I  see 

True  lessons  for  humanity. 

The  elms,  as  if  obedient,  bend 

Over  my  roof  their  shadows  deep  : 

A  canopy  of  verdure  lend, 

To  curtain  me  in  tranquil  sleep ; 

And  visions  floating  in  the  air 

Are  better  than  the  dreams  of  care. 

And  to  the  forest  solitudes 
I  fly  to  shield  my  quiet  head, 

And  the  wild  masters  of  the  woods 
Behold  in  me  no  tyrant  dread ; 


Poems  of  Nature. 


To  me,  the  fierce  and  foolish  chase 
Is  wearying  discord  and  disgrace. 

A  cheerful  guest  of  nature,  I 

Want  nor  satiety  have  known : 
Mine  is  a  blest  sufficiency 

And  freedom : — what  is  mine  to  own, 
And  to  enjoy — enough — no  more, 
Meat — drink — and  life  glides  calmly  o'er. 

When  hours  flow  dully  on  in  life, 

I  bid  some  cheerful  neighbor  come, 
And  then  mine  own  Bohemian  wife 

Gives  him  sweet  welcome  to  our  home; 
The  smiles  that  on  her  visage  shine 
Are  all  reflected  back  from  mine. 

The  morning  of  a  summer  day 

Breaks  forth  in  sweet  serenity : 
And  fair  as  roses  are,  and  gay, 

The  lovely  world  appears  to  me. 
'Tis  by  man's  eye  that  world  is  clad 
In  cheerful  light  or  darkness  sad. 

I  love  mankind — I  love  them  well — 

Wise — foolish — weeds — flowers — gloom  and  mirth ; 
Earth  is  to  me — nor  heaven  nor  hell — 

It  is — what  is  it? — simply  earth ; 
Poor  thoughtless  wretch,  by  folly  driven, 
Who  calls  his  earth — or  hell,  or  heaven. 

A  group  of  children  round  me  lead 

In  dance  and  song  the  happy  hours  : 
As  fair  as  flowers  upon  the  mead, 

But  sweeter  far  and  lovelier  flowers ; 


Poems  of  Nature.  65 


One  flower,  to  him  who  knows  its  worth, 
Is  a  dropp'd  star  of  heaven  on  earth. 

And  so  unanxious,  undismay'd, 

I  wait  for  death  ;  and  waiting  chant 

My  songs,  and  feel  upon  my  head 
The  sunshine  of  sweet  peace  :  I  want 

No  joy,  but  hope,  as  nature's  guest, 

To  die,  and  say,  "  Enough — I'm  blest." 

JOSEPH  JUNGMANN  (Bohemian). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWRINO. 


Of  TASSAGE. 


BEHOLD  !  the  birds  fly 

From  Gauthiod's  strand, 
And  seek  with  a  sigh 

Some  far  foreign  land. 
The  sounds  of  their  woe 

With  hollow  winds  blend  : 
"  Where  now  must  we  go  ? 

Our  flight  whither  tend  1  " 
'Tis  thus  unto  heaven  that  their  wailings  ascend. 

"  The  Scandian  shore 

We  leave  in  despair, 
Our  days  glided  o'er 

So  blissfully  there  : 
We  there  built  our  nest 

Among  bright  blooming  trees, 
There  rocked  us  to  rest 

The  balm-bearing  breeze  :  — 
But  now  to  far  lands  we  must  traverse  the  seas. 

6 


66  Poems  of  Nature. 


"  With  rose-crown  all  bright 

On  tresses  of  gold, 
The  midsummer  night 

It  was  sweet  to  behold : 
The  calm  was  so  deep, 

So  lovely  the  ray, 
"We  could  not  then  sleep, 

But  were  tranced  on  the  spray, 
Till  wakened  by  beams  from  the  bright  car  of  Day. 

"  The  trees  gently  bent 

O'er  the  plains  in  repose ; 
With  dew-drops  besprent 

Was  the  tremulous  rose ; 
The  oaks  now  are  bare, 

The  rose  is  no  more ; 
The  zephyr's  light  air 

Is  exchanged  for  the  roar 
Of  storms,  and  the  May-fields  have  mantles  of  hoar. 

"  Then  why  do  we  stay 

In  the  North,  where  the  sun 
More  dimly  each  day 

His  brief  course  will  run  ? 
And  why  need  we  sigh  ? 

We  leave  but  a  grave, — 
To  cleave  through  the  sky 

On  the  wings  which  God  gave ; — 
Then,  Ocean,  be  welcome  the  roar  of  thy  wave  ! " 

Of  rest  thus  bereaved, 

They  soar  in  the  air, 
But  soon  are  received 

Into  regions  more  fair; 


Poems  of  Nature.  67 


Where  elms  gently  shake 

In  the  zephyr's  light  play, 
Where  rivulets  take 

Among  myrtles  their  way, 
And  the  groves  are  resounding  with  Hope's  happy  lay. 

When  earth's  joys  are  o'er, 

And  the  days  darkly  roll, 
When  autumn  winds  roar, — 

Weep  not,  0  my  Soul! 
Fair  lands  o'er  the  sea 

For  the  birds  brightly  bloom ; 
A  land  smiles  for  thee, 

Beyond  the  dark  tomb, 
Where  beams  never  fading  its  beauties  illume  ! 

ERIC  JOHAN  STAGNELIUS  (Swedish). 

Translation  in  FOREIGN  REVIEW 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

PRIZE  thou  the  Nightingale, 
Who  soothes  thee  with  his  tale, 
And  wakes  the  woods  around ; 
A  singing  feather  he, — a  winged  and  wandering  sound : 

Whose  tender  carolling 
Sets  all  ears  listening 
Unto  that  living  lyre 
Whence  flows  the  airy  notes  his  ecstasies  inspire : 

Whose  shrill,  capricious  song 
Breathes  like  a  flute  along, 
With  many  a  careless  tone, — 
Music  of  thousand  tongues,  formed  by  one  tongue  alone. 


Poems  of  Nature. 


0  charming  creature  rare, 
Can  aught  with  thee  compare  ? 
Thou  art  all  song;  thy  breast 
Thrills  for  one  month  o'  th'  year, — is  tranquil  all  the  rest. 

Thee  wondrous  we  may  call, — 
Most  wondrous  this  of  all, 
That  such  a  tiny  throat 
Should  wake  so  wide  a  sound,  and  pour  so  loud  a  note. 

MAKIA  TESSELSCHADE  VISSCHEB  (Dutch). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWRING. 


THE 


How  captivating  is  to  me, 

Sweet  flower  !  thine  own  young  modesty  ! 

Though  did  I  pluck  thee  from  thy  stem, 

There's  none  would  wear  thy  purple  gem. 

I  thought,  perchance,  that  Ali  Bey  — 

But  he  is  proud  and  lofty  —  nay  ! 

He  would  not  prize  thee  —  would  not  wear 

A  flower  so  feeble  though  so  fair: 

His  turban  for  its  decorations 

Had  full  blown  roses  and  carnations. 

UNKNOWN  (Servian). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWRINQ. 


GENTLE  Spring,  in  sunshine  clad, 
Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display  ! 

For  Winter  maketh  the  light  heart  sad, 
And  thou — thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 


Poems  of  Nature,  69 


He  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy  train 
The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind,  and  the  rain ; 
And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in  fear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  giveth  the  fields,  and  the  trees  so  old, 

Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow ; 
And  the  rain,  it  raineth  so  fast  and  cold, 

We  must  cower  over  the  embers  low, 
And,  snugly  housed  from  the  wind  and  weather, 
Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 
But  the  storm  retires,  and  the  sky  grows  clear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 
Wrap  him  round  with  a  mantle  of  cloud; 

But,  Heaven  be  praised  !  thy  step  is  nigh ; 
Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud, 

And  the  earth  looks  bright,  and  Winter  surly, 

Who  has  toiled  for  naught  both  late  and  early, 

Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year, 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

CHARLES  D'ORL&ANS  (French). 

Translation  of  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


APRIL,  season  blest  and  dear, 
Hope  of  the  reviving  year, 
Promise  of  bright  fruits  that  lie 
In  their  downy  canopy, 
Till  the  nipping  winds  are  past, 
And  their  veils  aside  are  cast ! 


70  Poems  of  Nature. 


April,  who  delight'st  to  spread 
O'er  the  emerald,  laughing  mead 
Flowers  of  fresh  and  brilliant  dyes, 
Rich  in  wild  embroideries  ! 
April,  who  each  zephyr's  sigh 
Dost  with  perfumed  breath  supply, 
When  they  through  the  forest  rove, 
Spreading  wily  nets  of  love, 
That,  for  lovely  Flora  made, 
May  detain  her  in  the  shade  ! 

April,  by  thy  hand  caressed, 
Nature  from  her  genial  breast 
Loves  her  richest  gifts  to  shower, 
And  awakes  her  magic  power : 
Till  all  earth  and  air  are  rife 
With  delight,  and  hope,  and  life. 

April,  nymph  for  ever  fair, 
On  my  mistress'  sunny  hair 
Scattering  wreaths  of  odors  sweet, 
For  her  snowy  bosom  meet ; 
April,  full  of  smiles  and  grace 
Drawn  from  Venus'  dwelling  place ; 
Thou,  from  earth's  enamel'd  plain, 
Yield'st  the  gods  their  breath  again. 

Tis  thy  courteous  hand  dost  bring 
Back  the  messenger  of  Spring ; 
And,  his  tedious  exile  o'er, 
Hail'st  the  swallow's  wing  once  more. 

The  eglantine  and  hawthorn  bright, 
The  thyme,  and  pink,  and  jasmine  white, 
Don  their  purest  robes  to  be 
Guests,  fair  April,  worthy  thee. 


Poems  of  Nature.  7 1 


The  nightingale — sweet  hidden  sound  ! 
Midst  the  clustering  boughs  around, 
Charms  to  silence  notes  that  wake 
Soft  discourse  from  bush  and  brake : 
And  bids  every  list'ning  thing 
Pause  awhile  to  hear  her  sing. 

'Tis  to  thy  return  we  owe 
Love's  fond  sighs  that  learn  to  glow 
After  Winter's  chilling  reign 
Long  has  bound  them  in  her  chain. 
'Tis  thy  smile  to  being  warms 
All  the  busy,  shining  swarms, 
Which,  on  perfumed  pillage  bent, 
Fly  from  flower  to  flower,  intent ; 
Till  they  load  their  golden  thighs 
With  the  treasure  each  supplies. 

May  may  boast  her  ripen'd  hues, 
Richer  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  dews, 
And  those  glowing  charms  that  well 
All  the  happy  world  can  tell ; 
But,  sweet  April !  thou  shalt  be 
Still  a  chosen  month  for  me, 
For  thy  birth  to  her  is  due, 

Who  all  grace  and  beauty  gave, 
When  the  gaze  of  Heaven  she  drew, 

Fresh  from  ocean's  foamy  wave. 

REMY  BELLEAU  (French). 

Translation  of  LOUISA  STCAET  COSTELLO. 


72  Poems  of  Nature, 


THE 

POOR  withered  leaflet,  riven  from  thy  bough, 

Whither  dost  journey?     Ah  !  I  know  not  where. 
The  Oak,  my  parent  and  supporter,  now 

By  the  storm  shattered,  lies,  unconscious,  there ! 
With  her  inconstant  breath  the  Zephyr  mild, 

Or  the  rude  blast  from  o'er  the  icy  main, 
Has  whirled  me  since  the  dawn,  a  patient  child, 

From  the  deep  forest  to  the  smiling  plain, 
From  mountain  far  to  gentle  valley  near  : — 

Where  the  wind  leads  me,  thither  do  I  fly, 
Without  complaint,  or  question,  or  a  fear ; 

I  go  where  all  things  go,  or  low,  or  high, 
Where  go  the  rose-leaf  and  the  thistle  down, 
And  e'en  the  laurel  of  a  victor's  crown ! 

VINCENT  AKTOINE  ARNAULT  (French). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


Tis  sweet,  in  the  green  spring, 
To  gaze  upon  the  wakening  fields  around ; 

Birds  in  the  thicket  sing, 
Winds  whisper,  waters  prattle  from  the  ground 

A  thousand  odors  rise, 
Breathed  up  from  blossoms  of  a  thousand  dyes. 

Shadowy,  and  close,  and  cool, 
The  pine  and  poplar  keep  their  quiet  nook ; 

For  ever  fresh  and  full, 
Shines,  at  their  feet,  the  thirst-inviting  brook ; 

And  the  soft  herbage  seems 
Spread  for  a  place  of  banquets  and  of  dreams. 


Poems  of  Nature.  73 


Thou,  who  alone  art  fair, 
And  whom  alone  I  love,  art  far  away: 

Unless  thy  smile  be  there, 
It  makes  me  sad  to  see  the  earth  so  gay  ; 

I  care  not  if  the  train 
Of  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  zephyrs  go  again. 

ESTEVAN  MANUEL  DE  VILLEGAS  (Spanish). 

Translation  of  W.  C.  BRYANT. 


STAY,  rivulet,  nor  haste  to  leave 

The  lovely  vale  that  lies  around  thee  ! 

Why  wouldst  thou  be  a  sea  at  eve, 

When  but  a  fount  the  morning  found  thee  1 

Born  when  the  skies  began  to  glow, 

Humblest  of  all  the  rock's  cold  daughters, 

No  blossom  bowed  its  stalk  to  show 
Where  stole  thy  still  and  scanty  waters. 

Now  on  thy  stream  the  moonbeams  look, 
Usurping,  as  thou  downward  driftest, 

Its  crystal  from  the  clearest  brook, 
Its  rushing  current  from  the  swiftest. 

Ah,  what  wild  haste  !  —  and  all  to  be 

A  river  and  expire  in  ocean  ! 
Each  fountain's  tribute  hurries  thee 

To  that  vast  grave  with  quicker  motion. 

Far  better  't  were  to  linger  still 

In  this  green  vale,  these  flowers  to  cherish, 
And  die  in  peace,  an  aged  rill, 

Than  thus,  a  youthful  Danube,  perish. 

PEDRO  DE  CASTRO  Y  ANAYA  (Spanish). 

Translation  of  W.  C.  BRYANT. 


74  Poems  of  Nature. 


ODE  TO   THE  CVCKOO. 

NIGHTINGALES  built  the  nest 
Where,  as  a  lonely  guest, 
First  thy  young  head  did  rest, 

Cuckoo  so  dear ! 
Strange  to  the  father  bird, 
Strange  to  the  mother  bird 
Sounded  the  note  they  heard 

Tender  and  clear. 

Fleeing  thy  natal  bowers, 
Bright  with  the  silvery  flowers, 
Oft  in  the  summer  hours 

Hither  thou  fliest ; 
Light'st  on  some  orange  tall, 
Scattering  the  blossoms  all, 
And,  while  around  they  fall, 

Ceaselessly  criest. 

Though,  through  the  livelong  day 
Soundeth  thy  roundelay, 
Never  its  accents  may 

Pall  on  mine  ear ; 
Come,  take  a  bribe  of  me  ! 
Ne'er  to  far  regions  flee ; 
Dwell  on  mine  orange  tree, 

Cuckoo  so  dear ! 

UNKNOWN  (Japanese). 

Translation  of  BASIL  HALL  CHAMBEBLAIN. 


TO  &OM&. 

DAUGHTER  of  Mars  !     Hail,  mighty  Power ! 

Stern  Queen,  in  golden  crown  array'd  ! 
Who  build'st  on  earth  thy  regal  tower, 

A  high  Olympus,  ne'er  assay'd  ! 

To  thee  alone  hath  awful  Fate 

The  pride  of  vast  dominion  lent, 
The  strength  to  bind  a  rising  state 

In  bonds  of  ordered  government. 

Beneath  thy  yoke's  compelling  beam 

Unmeasur'd  earth  and  ocean  hoar 
Together  bend ;  whilst  thou,  supreme, 

The  nations  rul'st  from  shore  to  shore. 

E'en  mightiest  Time,  whose  laws  prevail 

To  change  the  world  at  his  decree, 
Can  never  turn  the  prosperous  gale 

That  swells  thy  potent  sovereignty. 

Of  thee  alone  a  race  is  bom, 

The  first  to  blaze  in  glorious  fight, 
Like  spicy  ranks  of  waving  corn, 

That  Ceres  marshals,  golden-bright. 

UNKNOWN  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERJVALE. 


76  Poems  of  Places. 


OJV  HOMS&'S 


FROM  Colophon  some  deem  thee  sprung, 
From  Smyrna  some,  and  some  from  Chios  ; 

These  noble  Salamis  have  sung, 

While  those  proclaim  thee  born  in  los  : 

And  others  cry  up  Thessaly 

The  mother  of  the  Lapithse. 

Thus  each  to  Homer  has  assign'd 

The  birth-place  just  which  suits  his  mind. 

But,  if  I  read  the  volume  right, 

By  Phoebus  to  his  followers  given, 
I'd  say  they're  all  mistaken  quite, 

And  that  his  real  country's  heaven  ; 
While  for  his  mother,  she  can  be 
No  other  than  Calliope. 

ANTIPATER  OF  SIDON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


TO  THJE  TENUYSlfLA   OF  SI'KMIO. 

SWEET  Sirmio  !     Thou,  the  very  eye 

Of  all  peninsulas  and  isles, 
That  in  our  lakes  of  silver  lie, 

Or  sleep,  enwreath'd  by  Neptune's  smiles, 

How  gladly  back  to  thee  I  fly  ! 

Still  doubting,  asking, — Can  it  be 
That  I  have  left  Bithynia's  sky, 

And  gaze  in  safety  upon  thee  1 


Poems  of  Places.  77 


Oh. !  what  is  happier  than  to  find 

Our  hearts  at  ease,  our  perils  past ; 
When  anxious  long,  the  lighten'd  mind 

Lays  down  its  load  of  care  at  last ; 

When  tired  with  toil,  o'er  land  and  deep, 

Again  we  tread  the  welcome  floor 
Of  our  own  home,  and  sink  to  sleep 

On  the  long-wished-for  bed  once  more. 

This,  this  it  is,  that  pays  alone 

The  ills  of  all  life's  former  track ; 
Shine  out,  my  beautiful,  mine  own 

Sweet  Sirmio,  greet  thy  master  back. 

And  thou  fair  lake,  whose  water  quaffs 
The  light  of  Heaven,  like  Lydia's  sea, 

Rejoice,  rejoice — let  all  that  laughs 
Abroad,  at  home,  laugh,  out  with,  me  ! 

CATULLDS  (Latin). 

Translation  of  THOMAS  MOORE. 


TO  THE  FOUNTAIN  Of1 


YE  limpid  brooks,  by  whose  clear  streams 

My  goddess  laid  her  tender  limbs  ! 

Ye  gentle  boughs,  whose  friendly  shade 

Gave  shelter  to  the  lovely  maid  ! 

Ye  herbs  and  flowers,  so  sweetly  press'd 

By  her  soft  rising  snowy  breast  ! 

Ye  Zephyrs  mild,  that  breathed  around 

The  place  where  Love  my  heart  did  wound  ! 

Now  at  my  summons  all  appear, 

And  to  my  dying  words  give  ear. 


78  Poems  of  Places. 


If  then  my  destiny  requires, 

And  Heaven  with  my  fate  conspires, 

That  Love  these  eyes  should  weeping  close, 

Here  let  me  find  a  soft  repose. 

So  Death  will  less  my  soul  affright, 

And,  free  from  dread,  my  weary  spright 

Naked  alone  will  dare  t'  essay 

The  still  unknown,  though  heaten  way ; 

Pleased  that  her  mortal  part  will  have 

So  safe  a  port,  so  sweet  a  grave. 

The  cruel  fair,  for  whom  I  burn, 

May  one  day  to  these  shades  return, 

And  smiling  with  superior  grace, 

Her  lover  seek  around  this  place, 

And  when  instead  of  me  she  finds 

Some  crumbling  dust  toss'd  by  the  winds, 

She  may  feel  pity  in  her  breast, 

And,  sighing,  with  me  happy  rest, 

Drying  her  eyes  with  her  soft  veil. 

Such  tears  must  sure  with  Heaven  prevail. 

"Well  I  remember  how  the  flowers 
Descended  from  these  boughs  in  showers. 
Encircled  in  the  fragrant  cloud 
She  sat,  nor  'midst  such  glory  proud. 
These  blossoms  to  her  lap  repair, 
These  fall  upon  her  flowing  hair, 
(Like  pearls  enchased  in  gold  they  seem) ; 
These  on  the  ground,  these  on  the  stream ; 
In  giddy  sounds  these  dancing  say, 
Here  Love  and  Laura  only  sway. 

In  rapturous  wonder  oft  I  said, 
Sure  she  in  Paradise  was  made. 


Poems  of  Places.  79 


Thence  sprang  that  bright  angelic  state, 
Those  looks,  those  words,  that  heavenly  gait, 
That  beauteous  smile,  that  voice  divine, 
Those  graces  that  around  her  shine. 
Transported  I  beheld  the  fair, 
And  sighing  cried,  How  came  I  here  ? 
In  Heaven  amongst  the  immortal  blest, 
Here  let  me  fix  and  ever  rest. 

FRANCESCO  PETRAECA  (Italian). 

Translation  of  MOLESWOETH. 


TAUCLVSE. 

NEVER  till  now  so  clearly  have  I  seen 
Her  whom  my  eyes  desire,  my  soul  still  views ; 
Never  enjoyed  a  freedom  thus  serene ; 
Ne'er  thus  to  Heaven  breathed  my  enamor'd  muse, 
As  in  this  vale  sequester'd,  darkly  green, 
Where  my  soothed  heart  its  pensive  thought  pursues, 
And  nought  intrusively  may  intervene, 
And  all  my  sweetly-tender  sighs  renews. 
To  Love,  and  meditation,  faithful  shade, 
Receive  the  breathings  of  my  grateful  breast ! 
Love  not  in  Cyprus  found  so  sweet  a  rest 
As  this,  by  pine  and  arching  laurel  made ! 
The  birds,  breeze,  water,  branches,  whisper  love ; 
Herb,  flower,  and  verdant  path  the  lay  symphonious  move. 

FRANCESCO  PETBARCA  (Italian). 

Translation  of  CAPEL  LOFFT. 


80  Poems  of  Places. 


ON  HIS  ftETWRJY  TO 

YE  vales,  made  vocal  by  my  plaintive  lay  ; 
Ye  streams,  embittered  with  the  tears  of  love  ; 
Ye  tenants  of  the  sweet  melodious  grove; 
Ye  tepid  gales,  to  which  my  sighs  convey 
A  softer  warmth  ;  ye  flowery  plains,  that  move 
Eeflection  sad  ;  ye  hills,  where  yet  I  rove, 
Since  Laura  there  first  taught  my  steps  to  stray  ;  — 
You,  you  are  still  the  same  !     How  changed,  alas, 
Am  I  !  who,  from  a  state  of  life  so  blest, 
Am  now  the  gloomy  dwelling-place  of  woe  ! 
'Twas  here  I  saw  my  love  :  here  still  I  trace 
Her  parting  steps,  when  she  her  mortal  vest 
Cast  to  the  earth,  and  left  these  scenes  below. 

FRANCESCO  PETRARCA  (Italian). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


ONCE  more,  ye  balmy  gales,  I  feel  you  blow  ; 
Again,  sweet  hills,  I  mark  the  morning  beams 
Gild  your  green  summits  ;  while  your  silver  streams 
Through  vales  of  fragrance  undulating  flow. 
But  you,  ye  dreams  of  bliss,  no  longer  here 
Give  life  and  beauty  to  the  glowing  scene  : 
For  stern  remembrance  stands  where  you  have  been, 
And  blasts  the  verdure  of  the  blooming  year. 
0  Laura  !  Laura  !  in  the  dust  with  thee, 
Would  I  could  find  a  refuge  from  despair  ! 
Is  this  thy  boasted  triumph,  Love,  to  tear 
A  heart  thy  coward  malice  dares  not  free  ; 
And  bid  it  live,  while  every  hope  is  fled, 
To  weep,  among  the  ashes  of  the  dead  ? 

FRANCESCO  PETRARCA  (Italian). 

Translation  of  ANNE  BANNEUMAK. 


Poems  of  Places.  81 


TO  ITALY. 

FAIR  land,  once  loved  of  Heaven  o'er  all  beside, 
Which  blue  waves  gird  and  lofty  mountains  screen  ! 
Thou  clime  of  fertile  fields  and  sky  serene, 
Whose  gay  expanse  the  Apennines  divide  ! 
What  boots  it  now,  that  Rome's  old  warlike  pride 
Left  thee  of  humbled  earth  and  sea  the  queen  ? 
Nations,  that  served  thee  then,  now  fierce  convene 
To  tear  thy  locks  and  strew  them  o'er  the  tide. 
And  lives  there  son  of  thine  so  base  at  core, 
Who,  luring  foreign  friends  to  thine  embrace, 
Stabs  to  the  heart  thy  beauteous,  bleeding  frame  ? 
Are  these  the  noble  deeds  of  ancient  fame  ? 
Thus  do  ye  God's  almighty  name  adore  1 
0  hardened  age  !     O  false  and  recreant  race  ! 

PIETRO  BEMBO  (Italian).    Translation  in  U.  S.  LITERARY  GAZETTE. 


VAUCLUSB,  ye  hills  and  glades  and  shady  vale, 
So  long  the  noble  Tuscan  bard's  retreat, 
When  warm  his  heart  for  cruel  Laura  beat, 
As  lone  he  wandered  in  thy  beauteous  dale  ! 
Ye  flowers,  which  heard  him  oft  his  pains  bewail 
In  tones  of  love  and  sorrow,  sad,  but  sweet  ! 
Ye  dells  and  rocks,  whose  hollow  sides  repeat, 
Even  yet,  his  ancient  passion's  moving  tale  ! 
Fountain,  which  pourest  out  thy  waters  green 
In  ever-flowing  streams  the  Sorgue  to  fill, 
Whose  charms  the  lovely  Arno's  emulate  ! 
How  deeply  I  revere  your  holy  scene, 
Which  breathes  throughout  the  immortal  poet  still, 
Whom  I,  perchance  all  vainly,  imitate  ! 

LUIGI  ALAMANNI  (Italian).     Translation  in  U.  S.  REVIEW. 


82  Poems  of  Places. 


TO  ROME. 

THOU  noble  nurse  of  many  a  warlike  chief, 

Who  in  more  brilliant  times  the  world  subdued  ; 

Of  old,  the  shrines  of  gods  in  beauty  stood 

Within  thy  walls,  where  now  are  shame  and  grief  : 

I  hear  thy  broken  voice  demand  relief, 

And  sadly  o'er  thy  faded  fame  I  brood,  — 

Thy  pomps  no  more,  —  thy  temples  fallen  and  rude,  — 

Thine  empire  shrunk  within  a  petty  fief. 

Slave  as  thou  art,  if  such  thy  majesty 

Of  bearing  seems,  thy  name  so  holy  now, 

That  even  thy  scattered  fragments  I  adore,  — 

How  did  they  feel,  who  saw  thee  throned  on  high 

In  pristine  splendor,  while  thy  glorious  brow 

The  golden  diadem  of  nations  bore  ? 

GIOVANNI  GOIDICCIONI  (Italian).    Translation  in  U.  S.  LITERARY  GAZETTE. 


THESE  marble  domes,  by  wealth  and  genius  graced 
With  sculptured  forms,  bright  hues,  and  Parian  stone, 
Were  once  rude  cabins  'midst  a  lonely  waste, 
Wild  shores  of  solitude,  and  isles  unknown. 
Pure  from  each  vice,  'twas  here  a  virtuous  train, 
Fearless,  in  fragile  barks  explored  the  sea  ; 
Not  theirs  a  wish  to  conquer  or  to  reign  : 
They  sought  these  island  precincts  —  to  be  free. 
Ne'er  in  their  souls  ambition's  flame  arose  ; 
No  dream  of  avarice  broke  their  calm  repose  ; 
Fraud,  more  than  death,  abhorred  each  artless  breast  : 
O,  now,  since  Fortune  gilds  their  brightening  day, 
Let  not  those  virtues  languish  and  decay, 
O'erwhelmed  by  luxury,  and  by  wealth  oppressed  ! 

GIOVANNI  DELLA  CASA  (Italian).    Translation  of  FELICIA  D.  HEMANS. 


Poems  of  Places.  83 


TO   THE  LIGHTHOUSE  AT  MALTA. 

THE  world  in  dreary  darkness  sleeps  profound ; 

The  storm-clouds  hurry  on,  by  hoarse  winds  driven ; 
And  night's  dull  shades  and  spectral  mists  confound 
Earth,  sea,  and  heaven  ! 

King  of  surrounding  Chaos  !  thy  dim  form 

Rises  with  fiery  crown  upon  thy  brow, 
To  scatter  light  and  peace  amid  the  storm, 
And  life  bestow. 

In  vain  the  sea  with  thundering  waves  may  peal 

And  burst  beneath  thy  feet  in  giant  sport, 
Till  the  white  foam  in  snowy  clouds  conceal 
The  sheltering  port : 

Thy  flaming  tongue  proclaims  "  Behold  the  shore  ! " 

And  voiceless  hails  the  weary  pilot  back, 
Whose  watchful  eyes,  like  worshippers,  explore 
Thy  shining  track. 

Now  silent  night  a  gorgeous  mantle  wears, — 

By  sportive  winds  the  clouds  are  scattered  far, 
And,  lo  !  with  starry  train  the  moon  appears 
In  circling  car : 

While  the  pale  mist,  that  thy  tall  brow  enshrouds, 

In  vain  would  veil  thy  diadem  from  sight, 
Whose  form  colossal  seems  to  touch  the  clouds 
With  starlike  light. 

Ocean's  perfidious  waves  may  calmly  sleep, 

Yet  hide  sharp  rocks, — the  cliff,  false  signs  display,— 
And  luring  lights,  far  flashing  o'er  the  deep, 
The  ship  betray : 


84  Poems  of  Places. 


But  thou,  whose  splendor  dims  each  lesser  beam, — 

Whose  firm,  unmoved  position  might  declare 
Thy  throne  a  monarch's, — like  the  North  Star's  gleam, 
Reveal'st  each  snare. 

So  Reason's  steady  torch,  with  light  as  pure, 

Dispels  the  gloom,  when  stormy  passions  rise, 
Or  Fortune's  cheating  phantoms  would  obscure 
The  soul's  dim  eyes. 

Since  I  am  cast  by  adverse  fortunes  here, 

Where  thou  presidest  o'er  this  scanty  soil, 
And  bounteous  Heaven  a  shelter  grants  to  cheer 
My  spirit's  toil ; 

Frequent  I  turn  to  thee,  with  homage  mute, 

Ere  yet  each  troubled  thought  is  calmed  in  sleep, 
And  still  thy  gem-like  brow  my  eyes  salute 
Above  the  deep. 

How  many  now  may  gaze  on  this  seashore, 
Alas  !  like  me,  as  exiles  doomed  to  roam ! 
Some  who,  perchance,  would  greet  a  wife  once  more, 
Or  children's  home ! 

Wanderers,  by  poverty  or  despots  driven 

To  seek  a  refuge,  as  I  do,  afar, 
Here  find,  at  last,  the  sign  of  welcome  given, — 
A  hospitable  star ! 

And  still,  to  guide  the  bark,  it  calmly  shines, — 
The  bark  that  from  my  native  land  oft  bears 
Tidings  of  bitter  griefs,  and  mournful  lines 
Written  with  tears. 


Poems  of  Places.  85 


When  first  thy  vision  flashed  upon  my  eyes, 

And  all  its  dazzling  glory  I  beheld, 
O,  how  my  heart,  long  used  to  miseries, 
With  rapture  swelled ! 

Inhospitable  Latium's  shores  were  lost, 

And,  as  amid  the  threatening  waves  we  steered, 
When  near  to  dangerous  shoals,  by  tempests  tossed, 
Thy  light  appeared. 

No  saints  the  fickle  mariners  then  praised, 

But  vows  and  prayers  forgot  they  with  the  night, 
While  from  the  silent  gloom  the  cry  was  raised 
"  Malta  in  sight !  " 

And  thou  wert  like  a  sainted  image  crowned, 

Whose  forehead  bears  a  shower  of  golden  rays, 
Which  pilgrims,  seeking  health  and  peace,  surround 
With  holy  praise. 

Never  may  I  forget  thee  !     One  alone 

Of  cherished  objects  shall  with  thee  aspire, 
King  of  the  Night !  to  match  thy  lofty  throne 
And  friendly  fire : 

That  vision  still  with  sparkling  light  appears 
In  the  sun's  dazzling  beams  at  matin  hour 
And  is  the  golden  angel  memory  rears 
On  Cordova's  proud  tower. 

ANGEL  DE  SAAVEDEA,  DCQUE  DE  BIVAS  (Spanish). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


86  Poems  of  Places. 


AMIDST  these  scenes,  0  pilgrim,  seek'st  thou  Koine  ? 
Vain  is  thy  search ; — the  pomp  of  Rome  is  fled ; 
Her  silent  Aventine  is  glory's  tomb ; 
Her  walls,  her  shrines,  but  relics  of  the  dead. 
That  hill,  where  Caesars  dwelt  in  other  days, 
Forsaken,  mourns,  where  once  it  towered  sublime ; 
Each  mouldering  medal  now  far  less  displays 
The  triumphs  won  by  Latium,  than  by  Time. 
Tiber  alone  survives ; — the  passing  wave, 
That  bathed  her  towers,  now  murmurs  by  her  grave, 
Wailing,  with  plaintive  sounds,  her  fallen  fanes. 
Rome  !  of  thine  ancient  grandeur  all  is  past, 
That  seemed  for  years  eternal  framed  to  last ; — 
Naught  but  the  wave,  a  fugitive,  remains. 

FRANCISCO  DE  QUEVEDO  Y  VILLEOAS  (Spanish). 

Translation  of  FELICIA  D.  HEMANS. 


POEMS    OF    LOVE. 


ODE  TO   VENUS. 

VENUS  !  immortal !  child  of  Jove  ! 
Who  sitt'st  on  painted  throne  above ; 
Weaver  of  wiles !  oh,  let  not  Love 

Inflict  this  torturing  flame  ! 

But  haste ;  if,  once,  my  passion's  cry 
Drew  thee  to  listen,  hasten  nigh ; 
From  golden  palaces  on  high 

Thy  harness'd  chariot  came. 

O'er  shadowy  earth,  before  my  sight, 
Thy  dainty  sparrows  wheel'd  their  flight  j 
Their  balanced  wings,  in  ether's  light, 
Were  quivering  to  and  fro. 

The  birds  flew  back :  thou,  blessed  queen ! 
Didst  smile  with  heavenly  brow  serene ; 
And  ask,  what  grief  the  cause  had  been, 
That  summon'd  thee  below  ! 

What  most  I  wished,  with  doating  mind ; 
Whom  most  seductive  I  would  bind 
In  amorous  nets ;  and,  "  Who,  unkind, 

My  Sappho,  wrongs  thee  now  ? " 


88  Poems  of  Love. 

"  The  fugitive  shall  turn  pursuer; 

The  vainly  woo'd  shall  prove  the  wooer; 

The  cold  shall  kneel  to  his  undoer, 

Though  she  disdain  his  vow." 

Come  then,  now  !  come  once  again  ! 
Ease  my  bosom  of  its  pain ! 
Let  me  all  my  wish  obtain  ! 

Fight  my  battles  thou ! 

SAPPHO  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


TO  A   GIRL  %  EL  Or  ED. 

THAT  man  is  like  a  god  to  me 
Who,  sitting  face  to  face  with  thee, 
Shall  hear  thee  sweetly  speak,  and  see 

Thy  laughter's  gentle  blandishing. 

'Tis  this  astounds  my  trembling  heart : 

I  see  thee,  lovely  as  thou  art: 

My  fluttering  words  in  murmurs  start, 

My  broken  tongue  is  faltering. 

My  flushing  skin  the  fire  betrays 
That  through  my  blood  electric  strays : 
My  eyes  seem  darkening  as  I  gaze, 

My  ringing  ears  re-echoing. 

SAPPHO  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SIB  C.  A.  ELTOS. 


Poems  of  Love.  89 


THE 


CUPID  once  upon  a  bed 

Of  roses  laid  his  weary  head  ; 

Luckless  urchin,  not  to  see 

"Within  the  leaves  a  slumbering  bee  ! 

The  bee  awaked  —  with  anger  wild 

The  bee  awaked,  and  stung  the  child. 

Loud  and  piteous  are  his  cries. 

To  Venus  quick,  he  runs,  he  flies  ; 

"  Oh  mother  !  I  am  wounded  through  — 

I  die  with  pain  —  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Stung  by  some  little  angry  thing, 

Some  serpent  on  a  tiny  wing  — 

A  bee  it  was,  for  once  I  know 

I  heard  a  peasant  call  it  so." 

Thus  he  spoke,  and  she  the  while 

Heard  him  with  a  soothing  smile  ; 

Then  said  :  "  My  infant,  if  so  much 

Thou  feel  the  little  wild-bee's  touch, 

How  must  the  heart,  ah,  Cupid,  be, 

The  hapless  heart,  that's  stung  by  thee  ?  " 

ANACREON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  THOMAS  MOORE. 


'TWAS  noon  of  night,  and  round  the  pole 
The  sullen  Bear  was  seen  to  roll : 
And  mortals,  wearied  with  the  day, 
Were  slumbering  all  their  cares  away ; 
An  infant,  at  that  dreary  hour, 
Came  weeping  to  my  silent  bower, 
8 


90  Poems  of  Love. 

And  waked  me  with  a  piteous  prayer, 
To  shield  him  from  the  midnight  air. 
"  And  who  art  thou,"  I  waking  cry, 
"  That  bid'st  my  blissful  visions  fly  ! " 
"  Ah,  gentle  sire," — the  infant  said, — 
"  In  pity  take  me  to  thy  shed ; 
Nor  fear  deceit ;  a  lonely  child, 
I  wander  o'er  the  gloomy  wild. 
Chill  drops  the  rain,  and  not  a  ray 
Illumes  my  drear  and  misty  way." 

I  heard  the  baby's  tale  of  woe ; 
I  heard  the  bitter  night-winds  blow ; 
And,  sighing  for  his  piteous  fate, 
I  trimm'd  my  lamp,  and  op'd  the  gate. 
'Twas  Love  !  the  little  wandering  sprite, 
His  pinion  sparkled  through  the  night. 
I  knew  him  by  his  bow  and  dart ; 
I  knew  him  by  my  fluttering  heart. 
Fondly  I  take  him  in,  and  raise 
The  dying  embers'  cheering  blaze  ; 
Press  from  his  dark  and  clinging  hair 
The  crystals  of  the  freezing  air, 
And  in  my  hand  and  bosom  hold 
His  little  fingers,  thrilling  cold. 

And  now  the  ember's  genial  ray 
Had  warm'd  his  anxious  fears  away  : 
"  I  pray  thee,"  said  the  wanton  child, 
(My  bosom  trembled  as  he  smil'd), 
"  I  pray  thee,  let  me  try  my  bow, 
For  through  the  rain  I've  wandered  so, 
That  much  I  fear  the  midnight  shower 
Has  injured  its  elastic  power.  "- 
His  fatal  bow  the  urchin  drew ; 
Swift  from  the  string  the  arrow  flew ; 


Poems  of  Love.  91 

As  swiftly  flew  a  glancing  flame, 

And  to  mine  inmost  spirit  came! 

And  "  Fare  thee  well," — I  heard  him  say, 

As,  laughing  wild,  he  wing'd  his  way ; 

"  Fare  thee  well,  for  now,  I  know, 

The  rain  has  not  relaxed  my  bow ; 

It  still  can  send  a  thrilling  dart, 

As  thou  shalt  own  with  all  thy  heart ! " 

ANACREON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  THOMAS  MOORE. 


ro 


BEST  of  painters  now  dispense 
All  thy  tinted  eloquence  : 
Master  of  the  roseate  art, 
Paint  the  mistress  of  my  heart. 
Paint  her,  absent  though  she  be, 
Paint  her  as  described  by  me. 

Paint  her  hair  in  tresses  flowing  : 
Black  as  jet  its  ringlets  glowing  : 
If  the  pallet  soar  as  high, 
Paint  their  humid  fragrancy. 
Let  the  color  smoothly  show 
The  gentle  prominence  of  brow  ; 
Smooth  as  ivory  let  it  shine 
Under  locks  of  glossy  twine. 

Now  her  eyebrows  lengthening  bend 
Neither  sever  them  nor  blend  : 
Imperceptible  the  space 
Of  their  meeting  arches  trace  : 
Be  the  picture  like  the  maid  : 
Her  dark  eyelids  fringed  with  shada 


92  Poems  of  Love. 

Now  the  real  glance  inspire  ; 
Let  it  dart  a  liquid  fire ; 
Let  her  eyes  reflect  the  day 
Like  Minerva's,  hazel-gray, 
Like  those  of  Venus,  swimming  bright, 
Brimful  of  moisture  and  of  light. 

Now  her  faultless  nose  design, 
In  its  flowing  aquiline ; 
Let  her  cheeks  transparent  gleam, 
Like  to  roses  strew'd  in  cream  ; 
Let  her  lips  seduce  to  bliss 
Pouting  to  provoke  the  kiss. 
Now  her  chin  minute  express, 
Rounded  into  prettiness : 
There  let  all  the  graces  play ; 
In  that  dimpled  circle  stray ; 
Round  her  bended  neck  delay ; 
Marble  pillar,  on  the  sight 
Shedding  smooth  its  slippery  white. 
For  the  rest,  let  drapery  swim 
In  purplish  folds  o'er  every  limb : 
But,  with  flimsy  texture,  show 
The  shape,  the  skin,  that  partial  glow : 
Enough — herself  appears ; — 'tis  done ; 
The  picture  breathes ;  the  paint  will  speak  anon. 

ANACREON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


THE  T&d.C&&ft  TAUGHT. 

As  late  I  slumbering  lay,  before  my  sight 
Bright  Venus  rose  in  visions  of  the  night : 
She  led  young  Cupid,  as  in  thought  profound 
His  modest  eyes  were  fix'd  upon  the  ground; 


Poems  of  Love.  93 

And  thus  she  spoke  :  "  To  thee,  dear  swain,  I  bring 
My  little  son ;  instruct  the  boy  to  sing." 

No  more  she  said ;  but  vanish'd  into  air, 
And  left  the  wily  pupil  to  my  care  : 
I, — sure  I  was  an  idiot  for  my  pains, — 
Began  to  teach  him  old  bucolic  strains ; 
How  Pan  the  pipe,  how  Pallas  form'd  the  flute, 
Phoebus  the  lyre,  and  Mercury  the  lute : 
Love,  to  my  lessons  quite  regardless  grown, 
Sang  lighter  lays,  and  sonnets  of  his  own ; 
Th'  amours  of  men  below,  and  gods  above, 
And  all  the  triumphs  of  the  Queen  of  Love. 
I, — sure  the  simplest  of  all  shepherd-swains — 
Full  soon  forgot  my  old  bucolic  strains ; 
The  lighter  lays  of  love  my  fancy  caught, 
And  I  remember'd  all  that  Cupid  taught. 

BION  (Greek). 

Translation  of  F.  FAWKES. 


OJV  d.  SLEEPING 

I  PIERCED  the  grove,  and  in  its  deepest  gloom 
Beheld  sweet  Love,  of  heavenly  form  and  bloom; 
Nor  bow  nor  quiver  at  his  back  was  strung, 
But  harmless  on  the  neighboring  branches  hung. 
On  rosebuds  pillowed,  lay  the  little  child, 
In  glowing  slumbers  pleased,  and  sleeping  smil'd, 
While  all  around  the  bees  delighted  sip 
The  breathing  fragrance  of  his  balmy  lip. 

PLATO  (Greefc). 

Translation  of  ROBERT  BLAND. 


94  Poems  of  Love. 


SOJVG. 

STILL,  like  dew  in  silence  falling, 

Drops  for  thee  the  nightly  tear ; 
Still  that  voice,  the  past  recalling, 

Dwells,  like  echo,  on  mine  ear, 
StiU,  still ! 

Day  and  night  the  spell  hangs  o'er  me ; 

Here,  forever  fixed  thou  art ; 
As  thy  form  first  shone  before  me, 

So  'tis  graven  on  this  heart, 
Deep,  deep ! 

Love,  oh  love,  whose  bitter  sweetness 

Dooms  me  to  this  lasting  pain  : 
Thou,  who  cam'st  with  so  much  fleetness, 

Why  so  slow  to  go  again  ? 
Why?  why? 

MELEAGER  (Greek). 

Translation  of  THOMAS  MOORE. 


THE 

THE  snowdrop  peeps  from  every  glade, 

The  gay  narcissus  proudly  glows, 
The  lily  decks  the  mountain  shade, 

Where  blooms  my  fair — a  blushing  rose. 

Ye  meads  !  why  vainly  thus  display 
The  buds  that  grace  your  vernal  hour  1 

For  see  ye  not  my  Zoe  stray, 

Amidst  your  sweets,  a  sweeter  flower  ? 

MELEAGER  (Greek). 

Tmnslation  of  SHEPHERD. 


Poems  of  Love.  95 


MUSIC 

BY  the  God  of  Arcadia,  so  sweet  are  the  notes 
Which  tremulous  fall  from  my  Khodope's  lyre ; 

Such  melody  swells  in  her  voice,  as  it  floats 

On  the  soft  midnight  air,  that  my  soul  is  on  fire. 

Oh  where  can  I  fly?  The  young  Cupids  around  me 

Gaily  spread  their  light  wings,  all  my  footsteps  pursuing : 

Her  eyes  dart  a  thousand  fierce  lustres  to  wound  me, 
And  music  and  beauty  conspire  my  undoing. 

MELEAGEB  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MEBIVALE. 


FRAGMENT. 

THERE  is  a  streamlet  issuing  from  a  rock. 
The  village-girls,  singing  wild,  madrigals, 
Dip  their  white  vestments  in  its  waters  clear, 
And  hang  them  to  the  sun.     There  first  I  saw  her. 
Her  dark  and  eloquent  eyes,  mild,  full  of  fire, 
'Twas  heaven  to  look  upon ;  and  her  sweet  voice, 
As  tuneable  as  harp  of  many  strings, 
At  once  spoke  joy  and  sadness  to  my  soul ! 

EURIPIDES  (Greek). 
Translation  of  SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


WHY,  foolish  painter,  give  those  wings  to  Love  ? 
Love  is  not  light,  as  my  sad  heart  can  prove  : 
Love  hath  no  wings,  or  none  that  I  can  see : 
If  he  can  fly,  oh !  bid  him  fly  from  me  ! 

EUBULUS  (Greek). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


96  Poems  of  Love. 


TO  THE 

BLEST  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he, 
The  youth,  who  fondly  sits  by  thee, 
And  hears  and  sees  thee  all  the  while 
Softly  speak  and  sweetly  smile. 

'Twas  this  deprived  my  soul  of  rest, 
And  raised  such  tumults  in  my  breast ; 
For,  while  I  gazed,  in  transport  tost, 
My  breath  was  gone,  my  voice  was  lost. 

My  bosom  glowed ;  a  subtle  flame 
Ran  quick  through  all  my  vital  frame ; 
O'er  my  dim  eyes  a  darkness  hung ; 
My  ears  with  hollow  murmurs  rung. 

In  dewy  damps  my  limbs  were  chill'd, 
My  blood  with  gentle  horrors  thrill'd ; 
My  feeble  pulse  forgot  to  play, 
I  fainted,  sunk,  and  died  away. 

SAPPHO  (Greek). 

Translation  of  AMBROSE  PHILLIPS. 


ZOYE  JVOT  EXTINGUISHED) 

OH  how  I  loved,  when,  like  the  glorious  sun, 

Firing  the  orient  with  a  blaze  of  light, 

Thy  beauty  every  lesser  star  outshone  ! — 

Now  o'er  that  beauty  steals  the  approach  of  night — 

Yet,  yet  I  love  !     Though  in  the  western  sea 

Half  sunk,  the  day-star  still  is  fair  to  me  ! 

STRATO  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


Poems  of  Love.  97 


TO 

DRINK  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 

The  thirst,  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine  : 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee, 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be. 

But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe, 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me, 
Since  when  it  grows  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 

PHILOSTKATUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  BEN  JONSON. 


,   THE 

LOVE  acts  the  tennis-player's  part, 
And  throws  to  thee  my  panting  heart ; 
Heliodora  !  ere  it  fall, 
Let  Desire  catch  swift  the  ball ; 
Let  her  in  the  ball-court  move, 
Fellow  in  the  game  with  Love  : 
If  thou  throw  me  back  again, 
I  shall  of  foul  play  complain. 

MELEAGER  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


98  Poems  of  Love. 


LOVE,  the  disturber  of  the  peace  of  Heaven 
And  grand  fomenter  of  Olympian   feuds, 
Was  banished  from  the  synod  of  the  gods ; 
They  drove  him  down  to  earth  at  the  expense 
Of  us  poor  mortals,  and  curtail'd   his  wings 
To  spoil  his  soaring,  and  secure  themselves 
From  his  annoyance.     Selfish,  hard  decree  ! 
For  ever  since  he  roams  th'  unquiet  world, 
The  tyrant  and  despoiler  of  mankind. 

AKISTOPHON  (Greek). 
Translation  of  RICHARD  CUMBERLAND. 


OJY 

I  MOURN  Adonis,  fair  Adonis  dead : 

The  Loves  their  tears  for  fair  Adonis  shed : 

No  more,  oh  Venus  !  sleep  in  purple  vest ; 

Rise  robed  in  blue :  ah,  sad  one  !  smite  thy  breast, 

And  cry,  "  the  fair  Adonis  is  no  more." 

I  mourn  Adonis  ;  him  the  Loves  deplore : 

See  fair  Adonis  on  the  mountains  lie; 

The  boar's  white  tusk  has  rent  his  whiter  thigh  : 

While  in  faint  gasps  his  life-breath  ebbs  away, 

Griefs  harrowing  agonies  on  Venus  prey : 

Black  through  the  snowy  flesh  the  blood-drops  creep ; 

The  eyes  beneath  his  brows  in  torpor  sleep  : 

The  rose  has  fled  his  lips,  and  with  him  dies 

The  kiss  that  Venus,  though  in  death,  shall  prize  : 

Dear  is  the  kiss,  though  life  the  lips  have  fled ; 

But  not  Adonis  feels  it  warm  the  dead. 

I  mourn  Adonis :  mourn  the  Loves  around : 
Ah  !  cruel,  cruel  is  that  bleeding  wound  : 


Poems  of  Love.  99 

Yet  Venus  feels  more  agonizing  smart ; 
A  deeper  wound  has  pierced  within  her  heart. 
Around  the  youth  his  hounds  in  howlings  yell ; 
And  shriek  the  nymphs  from  every  mountain  dell : 
Venus,  herself,  among  the  forest  dales, 
Unsandel'd,  strews  her  tresses  to  the  gales : 
The  wounding  brambles,  bent  beneath  her  tread, 
With  sacred  blood-drops  of  her  feet  are  red : 
She  through  the  lengthening  valleys  shrieks  and  cries, 
"  Say  where  my  young  Assyrian  bridegroom  lies? " 
But  round  his  navel  black  the  life-blood  flowed, 
His  snowy  breast  and  side  with  purple  glow'd. 

Ah,  Venus  !  ah,  the  Loves  for  thee  bewail ; 
With  that  lost  youth  thy  fading  graces  fail ; 
Her  beauty  bloom'd,  while  life  was  in  his  eyes ; 
Ah,  woe  !  with  him  it  bloom'd,  with  him  it  dies. 
The  oaks  and  mountains  "  ah,  Adonis  ! "  sigh : 
The  rivers  moan  to  Venus'  agony: 
The  mountain  springs  all  trickle  into  tears: 
The  blush  of  grief  on  every  flower  appears : 
And  Venus  o'er  each  solitary  hill, 
And  through  wide  cities  chaunts  her  dirges  shrill 

Woe,  Venus  !  woe !     Adonis  is  no  more : 
Echoes  repeat  the  lonely  mountains  o'er, 
"  Adonis  is  no  more  :"  woe,  woe  is  me  ! 
Who  at  her  grievous  love  dry-eyed  can  be  ? 
Mute  at  th'  intolerable  wound  she  stood : 
And  saw,  and  knew  the  thigh  dash'd  red  with  blood  : 
Groaning  she  stretch'd  her  arms:  and  "stay!"  she  said, 
"  Stay,  poor  Adonis  ! — lift  thy  languid  head : 
Ah !  let  me  find  thy  last  expiring  breath, 
Mix  lips  with  lips,  and  suck  thy  soul  to  death. 
Wake  but  a  little,  for  a  last,  last  kiss : 
Be  it  the  last,  but  warm  with  life,  as  this. 


100  Poems  of  Love. 

That  through  my  lips  I  may  thy  spirit  drain, 

Suck  thy  sweet  breath,  drink  love  through  every  vein 

This  kiss  shall  serve  me  ever  in  thy  stead ; 

Since  thou  thyself,  unhappy  one  !  art  fled  : 

Thou  art  fled  far  to  Acheron's  drear  scene, 

A  king  ahhorr'd,  and  an  inhuman  queen : 

I  feel  the  woe,  yet  live :  and  fain  would  be 

No  goddess,  thus  in  death  to  follow  thee. 

Take,  Proserpine,  my  spouse  :  all  loveliest  things 

Time  to  thy  realm,  oh  mightier  goddess  !  brings  : 

Disconsolate  I  mourn  Adonis  dead, 

With  tears  unsated,  and  thy  name  I  dread. 

Oh  thrice-belov'd  !  thou  now  art  dead  and  gone  ! 

And  all  my  sweet  love,  like  a  dream,  is  flown. 

Venus  sinks  lonely  on  a  widow'd  bed : 

The  Loves  with  listless  feet  my  chamber  tread : 

My  cestus  perish'd  with  thyself :  ah  why, 

Fair  as  thou  wert,  the  coverts  venturous  try, 

And  tempt  thy  woodland  monster's  cruelty  1 " 

So  Venus  mourns :  her  loss  the  Loves  deplore : 
Woe,  Venus,  woe !  Adonis  is  no  more. 
As  many  drops  as  from  Adonis  bled, 
So  many  tears  the  sorrowing  Venus  shed : 
For  every  drop  on  earth  a  flower  there  grows : 
Anemones  for  tears ;  for  blood  the  rose. 

I  mourn  Adonis :  fair  Adonis  dead  : 
Not  o'er  the  youth  in  words  thy  sorrows  shed : 
For  thy  Adonis'  limbs  a  couch  is  strewn, 
That  couch  he  presses,  Venus  !  'tis  thy  own. 
There  dead  he  lies,  yet  fair  in  blooming  grace  : 
Still  fair,  as  if  with  slumber  on  his  face. 
Haste,  lay  him  on  the  golden  stand,  and  spread 
The  garments  that  inrobed  him  in  thy  bed, 
When  on  thy  heavenly  breast  the  livelong  night 
He  slept,  and  court  him,  though  he  scare  thy  sight : 


Poems  of  Love.  101 

Lay  him  with  garlands  and  with  flowers ;  but  all 
"With  him  are  dead,  and  wither'd  at  his  fall. 
With  balms  anoint  him  from  the  myrtle  tree: 
Or  perish  ointments;  for  thy  balm  was  he. 

Now  on  his  purple  vest  Adonis  lies : 
The  groans  of  weeping  Loves  around  him  rise : 
Shorn  of  their  locks  beneath  their  feet  they  throw 
The  quiver  plumed,  the  darts,  and  broken  bow : 
One  slips  the  sandal,  one  the  water  brings 
In  golden  ewer,  one  fans  him  with  his  wings. 

The  Loves  o'er  Venus'  self  bewail  with  tears, 
And  Hymen  in  the  vestibule  appears 
Shrouding  his  torch ;  and  spreads  in  silent  grief 
The  vacant  wreath  that  twined  its  nuptial  leaf. 
"  Hymen  !"  no  more  :  but  "  woe,  alas  !"  they  sing: 
"  Ah,  for  Adonis  !"     "  Ah  !  for  Hymen  !"  ring  : 
The  Graces  for  the  son  of  Myrrha  pine ; 
And,  Venus  !  shriek  with  shriller  voice  than  thine. 
Muses,  Adonis,  fair  Adonis,  call, 
And  sing  him  back  ;  but  he  is  deaf  to  all. 
Bootless  the  sorrow,  that  would  touch  his  sprite, 
Nor  Proserpine  shall  loose  him  to  the  light : 
Cease  Venus  !  now  thy  wail :  reserve  thy  tear  : 
Again  to  fall  with  each  Adonian  year. 

BION  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


TO   WEA  T&  A   GA&LAJYZ)  FOR   THE 


To  weave  a  garland  for  the  Eose, 

And  think,  thus  crown'd  'twould  lovelier  be, 
"Were  far  less  vain  than  to  suppose 

That  silks  and  gems  add  grace  to  thee. 


102  Poems  of  Love. 

Where  is  the  pearl,  whose  orient  lustre 
Would  not,  beside  thee,  look  less  bright  ? 

What  gold  could  match  the  glossy  cluster 
Of  those  young  ringlets  full  of  light  ? 

Bring  from  the  land,  where  fresh  it  gleams, 

The  bright  blue  gem  of  India's  mine, 
And  see  how  soon,  though  bright  it  beams, 

'Twill  pale  before  one  glance  of  thine  ; 
Those  lips,  too,  when  their  sounds  have  blest  us, 

With  some  divine,  mellifluous  air, 
Who  would  not  say  that  beauty's  cestus 

Had  let  loose  all  its  witcheries  there  ? 

Here,  to  this  conquering  host  of  charms 

I  now  give  up  my  spell-bound  heart, 
Nor  blush  to  yield  e'en  Keason's  arms 

When  thou  her  bright-eyed  conqueror  art. 
Thus  to  the  wind  all  fears  are  given  ; 

Henceforth  those  eyes  alone  I  see, 
Where  Hope,  as  in  her  own  blue  heaven, 

Sits  beck'ning  us  to  bliss  and  thee. 

PAUL  THE  SILENTIABY  (Greek).    Translation  of  THOMAS  MOORE. 


ONCE  on  a  time,  as  for  my  fair  a  wreath  I  chanced   to 

twine, 
I  caught  young  Love  amongst  the  flowers,  and  plunged  him 

in  my  wine  ;  — 
I  plunged  him  in,  and  drank  him  up,  with  such  delicious 

glee, 
And  now  the  urchin,  with  his  wings,  is  always   tickling 

me. 

JULIAN,  PR/EFECT  OF  EGYPT  (Greek). 

Translation  of  W.  PETER. 


Poems  of  Love.  103 


THE  CHAIJV  OF1  LOVE. 

IN  wanton  sport,  my  Doris  from  her  fair 
And  glossy  tresses  tore  a  straggling  hair, 
And  bound  my  hands,  as  if  of  conquest  vain, 
And  I  some  royal  captive  in  her  chain. 
At  first  I  laugh'd — "  This  fetter,  lovely  maid, 
Is  lightly  worn,  and  soon  dissolved,"  I  said. 
I  said — but  ah,  I  had  not  learned  to  prove 
How  strong  the  fetters  that  are  forged  by  Love. 
That  little  thread  of  gold  I  strove  to  sever, 
Was  bound,  like  steel,  about  my  heart  for  ever, 
And,  from  that  luckless  hour,  my  tyrant  fair 
Has  led  and  turn'd  me  by  a  single  hair. 

PAUL  THE  SILENTIAB.Y  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MEEIVALE. 


RECONCILIATION. 

Horace.  WHILST  I  was  fond,  and  you  were  kind, 
Nor  any  dearer  youth  reclined 
On  your  soft  bosom  sought  to  rest, 
Phraates  was  not  half  so  bless'd. 

Lydia.    Whilst  you  adored  no  other  face, 
Nor  loved  me  hi  the  second  place, 
My  happy,  celebrated  fame 
Outshone  e'en  Ilia's  envied  name. 

Horace.  Me  Chloe  now  possesses  whole, 

Her  voice  and  lyre  command  my  soul : 
Nor  would  I  death  itself  decline, 
Could  her  life  ransom'd  be  with  mine. 


104  Poems  of  Love. 

Lydia.     For  me  the  lovely  Calais  burns, 

And,  warmth  for  warmth,  my  heart  returns, 
Twice  would  I  life  with  joy  resign, 
Could  his  be  ransom'd  once  with  mine. 

Horace.  What  if  sweet  love,  whose  bands  we  broke, 
Again  should  tame  us  to  the  yoke ; 
Should  banish'd  Chloe  cease  to  reign 
And  Lydia  her  lost  power  regain  1 

Lydia.     Though  Hesper  be  less  fair  than  he, 
Thou  wilder  than  the  raging  sea, 
Lighter  than  down  :  yet  gladly  I 
With  thee  would  live,  with  thee  would  die, 

HORACE  (Latin),  ODE  IX.,  BOOK  III. 

Translation  of  BISHOP  ATTEBBUBY. 


SOJYG. 


SWEET  maid,  if  thou  wouldst  charm  my  sight, 
And  bid  these  arms  thy  neck  infold  ; 
That  rosy  cheek,  that  lily  hand, 
Would  give  thy  poet  more  delight 
Than  all  Bocara's  vaunted  gold, 
Than  all  the  gems  of  Samarcand. 

Boy,  let  yon  liquid  ruby  flow, 
And  bid  thy  pensive  heart  be  glad, 
Whate'er  the  frowning  zealots  say  : 
Tell  them,  their  Eden  cannot  show 
A  stream  so  clear  as  Eocnabad, 
A  bower  so  sweet  as  Mosellay. 


Poems  of  Love.  105 

Oh !  when  these  fair  perfidious  maids, 
Whose  eyes  our  secret  haunts  infest, 
Their  dear  destructive  charms  display ; 
Each  glance  my  tender  breast  invades, 
And  robs  my  wounded  soul  of  rest, 

As  Tartars  seize  their  destined  prey. 

\ 

In  vain  with  love  our  bosoms  glow; 
Can  all  our  tears,  can  all  our  sighs, 
New  lustre  to  those  charms  impart  ? 
Can  cheeks  where  living  roses  blow, 
Where  nature  spreads  her  richest  dyes 
Kequire  the  borrowed  gloss  of  art  ? 

Speak  not  of  fate ; — ah  !  change  the  theme, 

And  talk  of  odors,  talk  of  wine, 

Talk  of  the  flowers  that  round  us  bloom : 

'Tis  all  a  cloud,  'tis  all  a  dream ; 

To  love  and  joy  thy  thoughts  confine, 

Nor  hope  to  pierce  the  sacred  gloom. 

Beauty  has  such  resistless  power, 
That  even  the  chaste  Egyptian  dame 
Sigh'd  for  the  blooming  Hebrew  boy ; 
For  her  how  fatal  was  the  hour, 
When  to  the  banks  of  Nilus  came 
A  youth  so  lovely  and  so  coy ! 

But  ah,  sweet  maid  !  my  counsel  hear, 
(Youth  should  attend  when  those  advise 
Whom  long  experience  renders  sage)  : 
While  music  charms  the  ravished  ear ; 
While  sparkling  cups  delight  our  eyes, 
Be  gay  :  and  scorn  the  frowns  of  age. 


106  Poems  of  Love. 

What  cruel  answer  have  I  heard  ! 
And  yet,  by  heaven,  I  love  thee  still : 
Can  aught  be  cruel  from  thy  lip  ? 
Yet  say,  how  fell  that  bitter  word 
From  lips  which  streams  of  sweetness  fill, 
Which  nought  but  drops  of  honey  sip  ? 

Go  boldly  forth,  my  simple  lay, 

Whose  accents  flow  with  artless  ease, 

Like  orient  pearls  at  random,  strung : 

Thy  notes  are  sweet,  the  damsels  say ; 

But  0  !  far  sweeter,  if  they  please 

The  nymph  for  whom  these  notes  are  sung. 

HAFIZ  (Persian). 

Translation  of  SIR  WILLIAM  JONES. 


OJV 

I  NEVER  knew  a  sprightly  fair 

That  was  not  dear  to  me, 
And  freely  I  my  heart  could  share 

With  every  one  I  see. 

It  is  not  this,  or  that  alone 

On  whom  my  choice  would  fall, 
I  do  not  more  incline  to  one 

Than  I  incline  to  all. 

The  circle's  bounding  line  are  they, 

Its  centre  is  my  heart, 
My  ready  love, — the  equal  ray 

That  flows  to  every  part. 

ABOU  ALT  THE  MATHEMATICIAN  (Arabian). 

Translation  of  3.  D.  CARLYLE. 


Poems  of  Love.  107 


HI?  PftAISES   THJ3  BEAUTIES  Of  LAUftA. 

HSR  golden  tresses  to  the  gale  were  streaming, 
That  in  a  thousand  knots  did  them  entwine, 
And  the  sweet  rays  which  now  so  rarely  shine 
From  her  enchanting  eyes,  were  brightly  beaming, 
And — was  it  fancy? — o'er  that  dear  face  gleaming 
Methought  I  saw  Compassion's  tint  divine ; 
What  marvel  that  this  ardent  heart  of  mine 
Blazed  swiftly  forth,  impatient  of  Love's  dreaming  ? 
There  was  naught  mortal  in  her  stately  tread 
But  grace  angelic,  and  her  speech  awoke 
Than  human  voices  a  far  loftier  sound. 
A  spirit  of  Heaven, — a  living  sun  she  broke 
Upon  my  sight, — what  if  these  charms  be  fled  ? 
The  slackening  of  the  bow  heals  not  the  wound. 

FRANCESCO  PETRARCA  (Italian).    Translation  of  WROTTESLEY. 


THERE  was  a  touching  paleness  on  her  face, 

Which  chased  her  smiles,  but  such  sweet  union  made 

Of  pensive  majesty  and  heavenly  grace, 

As  if  a  passing  cloud  had  veil'd  her  with  its  shade ; 

Then  knew  I  how  the  blessed  ones  above 

Gaze  on  each  other  in  their  perfect  bliss, 

For  never  yet  was  look  of  mortal  love 

So  pure,  so  tender,  so  serene  as  this. 

The  softest  glance  fond  woman  ever  sent 

To  him  she  loved,  would  cold  and  rayless  be 

Compared  to  this  which  she  divinely  bent 

Earthward,  with  angel  sympathy,  on  me, 

That  seem'd  with  speechless  tenderness  to  say, 

"  Who  takes  from  me  my  faithful  friend  away?" 

FRANCESCO  PETRARCA  (Italian).    Translation  in  NEW  MONTHLY. 


108  Poems  of  Love. 


IF  I  AM  FAIft,  'TIS  FO2Z  MrSJ&ZF 

IP  I  am  fair,  'tis  for  myself  alone ; 

I  do  not  wish  to  have  a  sweetheart  near  me, 
Nor  would  I  call  another's  heart  my  own, 

Nor  have  a  gallant  lover  to  revere  me. 
For,  surely,  I  will  plight  my  faith  to  none, 

Though  many  an  amorous  cit  would  jump  to  hear  me ; 
For  I  have  heard  that  lovers  prove  deceivers, 
When  once  they  find  that  maidens  are  believers. 

Yet  should  I  find  one  that  in  truth  could  please  me, 
One  whom  I  thought  my  charms  had  power  to  move, 

"Why,  then,  I  do  confess,  the  whim  might  seize  me 
To  taste  for  once  the  porringer  of  love. 

Alas  !  there  is  one  pair  of  eyes  that  tease  me ; 
And  then  that  mouth ! — he  seems  a  star  above, 

He  is  so  good,  so  gentle,  and  so  kind, 

And  so  unlike  the  sullen,  clownish  hind. 

What  love  may  be  indeed  I  cannot  tell, 
Nor  if  I  e'er  have  known  his  cunning  arts ; 

But  true  it  is,  there's  one  I  like  so  well, 

That,  when  he  looks  at  me,  my  bosom  starts, 

And  if  we  meet,  my  heart  begins  to  swell ; 
And  the  green  fields  around,  when  he  departs, 

Seem  like  a  nest  from  which  the  bird  has  flown  : 

Can  this  be  love  1 — say,  ye  who  love  have  known  ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  (Italian). 

Translation  in  NORTH  AMERICAN  REVIEW. 


Poems  of  Love.  109 


THE  SWJZ&T  2)  ATS  Of1  SUMMED 
COME 


WHEN  the  sweet  days  of  summer  come  at  last, 

And  leaves  and  flowers  are  in  the  forest  springing  ; 
When  the  cold  time  of  winter  's  overpast, 

And  every  bird  his  own  sweet  song  is  singing  ; 
Then  will  I  sing, 
And  joyous  be, 
Of  careless  heart, 
Elate  and  free  ; 

For  she,  my  lady  sweet  and  sage, 
Bids  me,  as  ever  wont,  engage 
In  joyful  mood  to  be. 

Nor  is  it  yet  the  spirit  of  the  season,  — 

The  summer  time,  —  that  makes  my  song  so  gay  ; 
But  softer  thoughts,  and  yet  a  sweeter  reason,  — 

Love,  —  that  o'er  all  my  happy  heart  hath  sway  ; 
That  with  delight  my  soul  will  ceaseless  turn 

Toward  her  I  ween  of  all  the  world  the  best  : 
And  if  my  songs  be  sweet,  well  may  they  learn 

Sweetness  from  her,  whose  love  my  heart  has  blest. 

And  since  that  love  is  rightfully  my  boon, 

Well  may  I  hold  her  chief  within  my  soul, 
Who  helps  my  numbers,  gives  me  song  and  tune, 

And  her  own  grace  diffuses  o'er  the  whole. 
For  when  I  think  of  those  dear  eyes  of  hers, 

Whence  the  bright  light  of  love  is  ever  breaking, 
Delight  and  hope  that  happy  thought  confers, 

And  I  am  blest  beyond  the  power  of  speaking. 

JAQUES  DE  CHISON  (French). 

Translation  of  EDGAR  TAYLOR. 


110  Poems  of  Love. 


WHO  HAS  JYOT  LOOKED  U&OJVHEft 

WHO  has  not  looked  upon  her  brow 
Has  never  dreamed  of  perfect  bliss : 

But  once  to  see  her  is  to  know 
What  beauty,  what  perfection,  is. 

Her  charms  are  of  the  growth  of  Heaven, 
She  decks  the  night  with  hues  of  day : 

Blest  are  the  eyes  to  which  'tis  given 
On  her  to  gaze  the  soul  away  ! 

PIERRE  ROGIERS  (French). 

Translation  of  LOUISA  STUART  COSTELLO. 


SOJYG. 

HEAVEN  !  'tis  delight  to  see  how  fair 

Is  she,  my  gentle  love  ! 
To  serve  her  is  my  only  care, 

For  all  her  bondage  prove. 
Who  could  be  weary  of  her  sight  ? 

Each  day  new  beauties  spring : 
Just  Heaven,  who  made  her  fair  and  bright, 

Inspires  me  while  I  sing. 

In  any  land  where'er  the  sea 

Bathes  some  delicious  shore, 
Where'er  the  sweetest  clime  may  be 

The  south  wind  wanders  o'er, 
'Tis  but  an  idle  dream  to  say 

With  her  may  aught  compare  : 
The  world  no  treasure  can  display 

So  precious  and  so  fair. 

CHARLES  D'ORLEANS  (French). 

Translation  of  LOUISA  STUART  COSTELLO. 


Poems  of  Love.  Ill 


SQUIRREL,  mount  yon  oak  so  high, 
To  its  twig  that  next  the  sky 

Bends  and  trembles  as  a  flower  ! 
Strain,  0  stork,  thy  pinion  well,  — 
From  thy  nest  'neath  old  church-bell, 
Mount  to  yon  tall  citadel, 

And  its  tallest  donjon  tower  ! 

To  yon  mountain,  eagle  old, 

Mount,  whose  brow  so  white  and  cold 

Kisses  the  last  ray  of  even  ! 
And,  0  thou  that  lov'st  to  mark 
Morn's  first  sunbeam  pierce  the  dark, 
Mount,  O,  mount,  thou  joyous  lark, 

Joyous  lark,  0,  mount  to  Heaven  ! 

And  now  say,  from  topmost  bough, 
Towering  shaft,  and  peak  of  snow, 

And  Heaven's  arch,  —  0,  can  ye  see 
One  white  plume  that  like  a  star 
Streams  along  the  plain  afar, 
And  a  steed  that  from  the  war 

Bears  my  lover  back  to  me  ? 

VICTOR  HUGO  (French). 


Translation  in  DEMOCRATIC  REVIEW. 


SOJYJYET. 

SAY,  canst  thou  number  all  the  stars  that  gleam 
Along  the  silent  air  in  dazzling  light, 

And  form  an  everlasting  diadem 

For  the  dark  tresses  and  clear  brow  of  night  ? 


112  Poems  of  Love. 

Know'st  thou  how  many  flowers  attend  the  Spring, 
How  many  fruits  fair  Autumn's  bounties  bring  ? 
Know'st  thou  each  jewell'd  cave  that  hidden  lies 

Where  the  bold  mariner  directs  his  sail  ? 
Or  canst  thou  count  the  vivid  sparks  that  rise 

Where  Etna's  and  Vesuvius'  fires  prevail  ? 
How  many  billows  rush  with  angry  roar 
Against  the  barrier  of  the  foamy  shore  ? 
If  these  thou  know'st,  perchance  thy  tongue  may  tell 
Her  charms,  her  virtues,  whom  I  love  so  well ! 

JOACHIM  DU  BELLAY  (French). 

Translation  of  LOUISA  STUART  COSTELLO. 


THE 

THIS  dear  resemblance  of  thy  lovely  face, 

'Tis  true,  is  painted  with  a  master's  care ; 
But  one  far  better  still  my  heart  can  trace, 

For  Love  himself  engraved  the  image  there. 
Thy  gift  can  make  my  soul  blest  visions  share ; 

But  brighter  still,  dear  love,  my  joys  would  si  line, 
Were  I  within  thy  heart  impressed  as  fair, 

As  true,  as  vividly,  as  thou  in  mine  ! 

CLEMEKT  MABOT  (French). 

Translation  of  LOUISA  STUART  COSTELLO. 


LOVE  !  our  being's  waking  bliss  ! 
Spirit  garb  of  Happiness  ! 
Heaven's  halo,  sent  to  shine 
O'er  a  world  no  more  divine  ! 


Poems  of  Love.  113 

Nature's  heart,  whose  choicest  measure 
Beats  in  time  to  promised  pleasure ; 
Drop  to  drop,  within  the  ocean ; 

Star  to  star,  in  Heaven  above, 
Moving,  with  harmonious  motion, 

Eound  the  sun  they  love ; 
Brotherhood  and  Sympathy 
Are  the  laws  that  flow  from  thee. 
Love  !  that  art,  within  the  mind 
Of  our  erring,  hapless  kind, 
Even  this, — a  recollection 
Of  a  holier  affection, 

Born  in  Heaven ;  fairest  then, 
With  the  silver  chaplets  round  it 
Of  the  singing  stars  that  bound  it, 
Then  nestled  on  its  father's  breast, 
With  angel-wings  to  shade  its  rest, — 

Keflected  last  on  men. 
Ere  then,  as  rich  as  Thought,  as  fair 
As  minstrel-dreams,  its  speech  was  Prayer, 
Its  kindred  sweet,  those  forms  that  bless 
This  world  with  their  own  loveliness ; 
And  fill  the  sense  with  music,  flung 
From  harps  unearthly,  Spirit-strung. 
What  if  it  fell  to  mix  with  men, 
And  none  must  feel  it  pure  again  ? 
At  some  sweet  times,  it  seems  to  wear 
The  seraph-robes  that  erst  it  bare ; 
At  some  sweet  times,  its  whispers  come 
Like  echoes  from  its  heavenly  home, 

When  heart  meets  heart,  and  life  is  love, 
The  breath  that  fans  the  spring's  blue  sky, 
The  minstrel's  magic  melody, 

In  such  soft  numbers  move ; 

10 


114  Poems  of  Love. 

But  liker  still,  for  that  they  be 
Themselves  the  brood  of  Memory, 
Those  recollected  distant  chants 
Of  homes  for  which  the  Switzer  pants, 
That  raise  beneath  the  tropic's  glow 
His  old,  familiar  Alpine  snow. 

ESAIAS  TEGNfcR  (Swedish). 

Translation  of  R.  S.  LATHAM. 


ZOYE?)  OJVJS  EYE  ft 

I  THINK  of  thee,  when  the  bright  sunlight  shimmers 

Across  the  sea ; 
When  the  clear  fountain  in  the  moonbeam  glimmers, 

I  think  of  thee. 

I  see  thee,  if  far  up  the  pathway  yonder 

The  dust  be  stirred ; 
If  faint  steps  o'er  the  little  bridge  to  wander 

At  night  be  heard. 

I  hear  thee,  when  the  tossing  waves'  low  rumbling 

Creeps  up  the  hill ; 
I  go  to  the  lone  wood  and  listen,  trembling, 

When  all  is  still. 

I  am  with  thee,  wherever  thou  art  roaming, — 

And  thou  art  near  ! 
The  sun  goes  down,  and  soon  the  stars  are  coming : 

Would  thou  wert  here  ! 

JOHANN  WOLFGANG  vow  GOETHE  (German). 

Translation  of  J.  S.  DWJGHT. 


Poems  of  Love.  115 


THJ?  COWRSJ&  OF1  THINGS. 

ON  every  evening  forth  I  roam, 

And  o'er  the  meadows  hie, 
She  sees  me  from  her  cottage  home, 
It  stands  the  road  hard  by. 

We  no  appointment  ever  make, 
It  is  the  course  things  always  take. 

I  know  not  how  it  happens  thus, 

We  always  kiss, — we  two ; 
I  ask  her  not,  she  says  not : — "  Yes," 
Nor  says  she  ever : — "  No." 

When  lip  with  lip  would  fain  unite, 
There's  no  demur, — it  seems  all  right. 

The  zephyr  round  the  rose  may  breathe, 

It  asks  not :  "  Lov'st  me,  dear?" 
The  rose  may  in  the  pure  dew  bathe, 
And  no  refusal  fear. 

I'm  fond  of  her,  she's  fond  of  me, 
Yet  neither  says  :  "  I'm  fond  of  thee  !" 

JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND  (German). 

Translation  of  W.  H.  FURNESS. 

TO  THE  CHOSEJY  OJYE. 

HAND  in  hand  !  and  lip  to  lip  ! 

Oh,  be  faithful,  maiden  dear ! 
Fare-thee-well !  thy  lover's  ship 

Past  full  many  a  rock  must  steer ; 
But  should  he  the  haven  see, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  break, 
And  be  happy,  reft  of  thee, — 

May  the  gods  fierce  vengeance  take  ! 


116  Poems  of  Love. 

Boldly  dared,  is  well  nigh  won  ! 

Half  my  task  is  solved  aright  ; 
Ev'ry  star's  to  me  a  sun, 

Only  cowards  deem  it  night. 
Stood  I  idly  by  thy  side, 

Sorrow  still  would  sadden  me  ; 
But  when  seas  our  paths  divide, 

Gladly  toil  I,  —  toil  for  thee  ! 

Now  the  valley  I  perceive, 

Where  together  we  will  go, 
And  the  streamlet  watch  each  eve, 

Gliding  peacefully  below. 
Oh,  the  poplars  on  yon  spot  ! 

Oh,  the  beach  trees  in  yon  grove  ! 
And  behind  we'll  build  a  cot, 

Where  to  taste  the  joys  of  love  ! 

JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE  (German). 

Translation  of  E.  A.  BOWRING. 


d.  T  HER  S  TIJVJVJTJVG-  WHEEL. 

MY  heart  is  sad, 

My  peace  is  o'er, 
I  find  it  never 

And  nevermore. 

When  gone  is  he, 

The  grave  I  see  ; 
The  world's  wide  all 

Is  turn'd  to  gall. 

Alas,  my  head 

Is  well-nigh  crazed  ; 
My  feeble  mind 

Is  sore  amazed. 


Poems  of  Love.  117 

My  heart  is  sad, 

My  peace  is  o'er; 
I  find  it  never 

And  nevermore. 

For  him  from  the  window 

Alone  I  spy; 
For  him  alone 

From  home  go  L 

His  lofty  step, 

His  noble  form, 
His  mouth's  sweet  smile, 

His  glances  warm, 

His  voice  so  fraught 

With  magic  bliss, 
His  hand's  soft  pressure, 

And,  ah,  his  kiss  ! 

My  heart  is  sad, 

My  peace  is  o'er ; 
I  find  it  never 

And  nevermore. 

My  bosom  yearns 

For  his  form  so  fair ; 
Ah  could  I  clasp  him 

And  hold  him  there ! 

My  kisses  sweet 

Should  stop  his  breath 
And  'neath  his  kisses 

I'd  sink  in  death  ! 

JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE  (German). 

Translation  of  E.  A.  BOWRING. 


118  Poems  of  Love. 


THE  GOI,3)SMITH'S  DAUGHTER. 

A  SMITH  was  standing  in  his  booth, 

'Mid  pearls  and  jewels  fine ; 
"  The  brightest  jewel  here,  in  truth, 
Art  thou  to  me,  Helena, 

O  dearest  daughter  mine  ! " 

A  gallant  knight  there  entered,  with — 

"  Welcome,  thou  maiden  fair, 
And  welcome  thou,  my  trusty  smith ; 
Make  me  a  wreath,  I  pray  thee, 

For  my  sweet  bride  to  wear." 

And  when  the  costly  crown  was  wrought, 

And  in  rich  brilliance  shone, 
Then  Helen,  filled  with  sadness,  thought, 
As  on  her  arm  she  hung  it, 

While  seated  all  alone  : 

"  Ah,  happy  she,  upon  whose  brow 
This  brilliant  wreath  will  shine  ! 

Ah !  would  that  knight  on  me  bestow 

A  wreath  of  roses  only, 

What  joy  would  then  be  mine  !" 

Ere  long  returned  that  gallant  knight, 
And  well  the  wreath  he  scanned  ; 

"  A  ring  with  sparkling  diamonds  bright, 

My  trusty  goldsmith,  make  me, 
For  my  fair  maiden's  hand." 

And  when  the  costly  ring  was  wrought, 
With  many  a  brilliant  stone, 


Poems  of  Love.  119 

Fair  Helen,  filled  with  saddest  thought, 
Half  drew  it  on  her  linger, 
While  seated  all  alone  : 

"  Ah,  happy  she,  whose  finger  fair 

With  this  bright  ring  shall  shine ! 
If  but  one  curl  of  his  dear  hair 
That  gallant  knight  would  give  me, 

What  joy  would  then  be  mine." 

Again  the  knight  returned,  and  now 

The  ring  likewise  he  scanned : 
"  Ah   well,  my  trusty  smith,  hast  thou 
These  bright  adornments  fashioned, 

For  that  dear  head  and  hand. 

"  Yet  how  they  suit,  that  I  may  see, 

Prithee,  fair  maiden  now 
Come  hither,  let  me  try  on  thee 
These  jewels  for  my  darling, — 

She  is  as  fair  as  thou." 

It  was  a  Sunday  morning  fair, 

And  therefore  this  sweet  maid 
Was  for  the  day,  with  reverent  care, 
As  she  to  church  was  going, 

All  festally  arrayed. 

She  came  with  lovely  shame  aglow, 

Before  the  knight  to  stand ; 
He  placed  the  wreath  upon  her  brow, 
The  ring  upon  her  finger, 

And  then  he  took  her  hand : 


120  Poems  of  Love. 

"  Helena  sweet,  Helena  fair, 

The  jest  aside  be  laid ; 
Thou  art  the  bride,  of  all  most  dear, 
For  whom  this  golden  chaplet, 

For  whom  this  ring  was  made. 

"  'Mid  gold  and  pearls,  and  jewels  fine, 
Thy  years  have  passed  till  now ; 

And  this  to  thee  shall  be  the  sign 

That  thou,  all  high  in  honor, 
Through  life  with  me  shalt  go." 

JOHANN  LUDWIO  UHLAND  (German). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


"  HEAR  I  the  creaking  gate  unclose  ? 

The  gleaming  latch  uplifted  ? 
No  !  'twas  the  wind  that,  whirring,  rose, 
Amidst  the  poplars  drifted  ! 

"  Adorn  thyself,  thou  green  leaf-bowering  roof, 

Take  from  her  gracious  looks  the  only  light ; 
With  shadowy  boughs,  whose  secrets  are  star-proof, 

Build  the  still  hall  and  weave  the  friendly  night, 
And  ye,  sweet  flatteries  of  the  delicate  air, 

Awake,  and  sport  her  rosy  cheek  around, 
When  their  light  weight  the  tender  feet  shall  bear, 

When  Beauty  comes  to  Passion's  trysting-ground. 

H. 

"  Hush  !  what  amidst  the  copses  crept 

So  swiftly  by  me  now  ? 
No !  'twas  the  startled  bird  that  swept 
The  light  leaves  of  the  bough  ! 


Poems  of  Love.  121 

"  Day,  quench  thy  torch  !      Forth,  forth,  0  Night !      All 

hail 

Thee  and  thine  own  loved  Silence.     Favoring  hour 
Spiritual,  round  us  spread  thy  purple  vail, 

And  shroud  yet  more  the  secret-guarding  bower. 
Love's  paradise  vouchsafes  no  listener's  ear, 
It  flies  the  light — admits  no  eye  to  see ; 
Hesper  alone,  the  Silent  One,  may  hear ! 
Hesper,  down-glancing,  the  sole  witness  be. 

in. 

"  What  murmur  in  the  distance  spoke 

And  like  a  whisper  died  ? 
No  !  'twas  the  swan  that  gently  broke 
In  rings  the  silver  tide  ! 

"  Soft  to  my  ear  there  comes  a  music  flow ; 

With  grateful  murmur  purls  the  waterfall ; 
To  Zephyr's  kiss,  the  flowers  are  bending  low ; 

All,  where  I  look,  exchange  delight  with  all. 
The  rich  grapes  beckon ;  from  the  glossy  lair 

Of  covert  leaves  the  ripe  peach  swelling  breaks, 
Steep'd  in  the  fragrance  of  the  evening  air, 

Cool  breezes  drink  the  fever  from  my  cheeks ; 

IV. 

"  Hark  !  through  the  laurels  hear  I  now 

A  footfall  1     Comes  the  maiden  ? 
No  !  'twas  the  fruit  slid  from  the  bough 
With  its  own  richness  laden  ! 

"  Day's  lustrous  eyes  grow  heavy  in  sweet  death, 
And  his  rich  colors  wane  in  slow  degrees ; 
11 


122  Poems  of  Love. 

The  flowers  that  shrunk  before  his  glowing  breath, 
Bold  in  the  twilight,  ope  their  chalices. 

The  bright  face  of  the  moon  is  still  and  lone, 
Melts  in  vast  masses  the  world  silently ; 

Slides  from  each  charm,  the  slowly  loosening  zone ; 
And  round  all  beauty,  vailless,  roves  the  eye. 

v. 

"  What  yonder  seems  to  glimmer? 

Her  white  robe's  glancing  hues  ? 
No  !  'twas  the  column's  shimmer 
Athwart  the  darksome  yews  ! 

"  0,  longing  heart  no  more,  delight  upbuoy'd, 

Let  the  sweet  airy  image  thee  befool ! 
The  arms  that  would  embrace  her  clasp  the  void. 
This  feverish  breast  no  phantom  bliss  can  cool. 
O,  waft  her  here,  the  true,  the  living  one  ! 
Let  but  my  hand  her  hand,  the  tender,  feel — 
The  very  shadow  of  her  robe  alone  ! — " 

See,  where  the  vision  into  life  doth  steal ! 

And  light,  as  comes,  when  least  we  ween, 

From  Heaven  the  hour  of  bliss, 
All  gently  came  the  maid,  unseen ; — 

He  waked  beneath  her  kiss. 

FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER  (German}. 

Translation  of  E.  BULWER  LYTTON. 


SOJVG. 

THE  black  clouds  lower,  the  oak  woods  roar — 
A  maiden  wanders  by  the  green  shore, 
The  waves  are  breaking  with  might,  with  might, 
And  she  wailingly  sings  in  the  darkness  of  night, 
Her  eyes  all  wet  with  weeping. 


Poems  of  Love.  123 

The  heart  is  withered — the  world  is  vain, 
And  never  can  grant  my  wishes  again, 
Earth's  bliss  I  have  drunk  and  with  it  have  done, 
I  have  lived  and  have  loved,  thou  holiest  one 
Take  me  back  to  thy  keeping. 

FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER  (German). 

Translation  of  WILLIAM  HUNT. 

fO'R  jEYJBll   rHUVJE. 

FOR  ever  thine  !  though  sea  and  land  divide  thee, 

For  ever  thine ! 
Through  burning  wastes  and  winds, — whate'er  betide  me, — 

For  ever  thine ! 
'Mid  dazzling  tapers  in  the  marble  palace, 

For  ever  thine ! 
Beneath  the  evening  moon  in  pastoral  valleys, 

For  ever  thine ! 
And  when  the  feeble  lamp  of  life,  expiring, 

Becomes  divine, — 
My  breaking  heart  will  echo,  still  untiring, 

For  ever  thine ! 

FRIEDRICH  VON  MATTHHSON  (German). 

Translation  of  5.  MACK  AY. 

LOTS  IJV  si  BOAT. 

'Tis  a  calm  and  silent  even, 

Luna  rests  upon  the  sea ; 
See  !  the  impelling  breeze  has  driven, 

Driven  a  little  bark  to  me. 

What  a  lovely  child  is  seated 
At  the  helm — a  trembling  child  ! 

"  Thou  wilt  perish,  boy  ill-fated  ! 
Whelm'd  among  the  surges  wild." 


124  Poems  of  Love. 

"  Help  me  !  help  me  !  gentle  stranger ! 

All  my  strength,  alas  !  is  gone  : 
Take  the  helm — conduct  the  ranger 

To  some  harbor  of  thy  own." 

Pity's  warmth,  that  never  freezes, 
Bid  me  seize  the  helm  : — we  sped, 

Wafted  by  awakening  breezes, 
As  by  feather'd  arrows  led. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  then  we  glided 
By  the  flowery  shores  along ; 

Reach'd  a  spot  where  joy  presided, 
Smiling  nymphs,  and  dance  and  song. 

Music  welcomed  us  and  laughter, 
Garlands  at  our  feet  were  thrown : 

Then  I  looked  my  wanderer  after — 
I  was  left — the  bark  was  gone. 

On  the  stormy  shore  I  laid  me, 
Careless  of  the  surges'  spray  ; 

Sought  the  child  who  had  betrayed  me, 
Saw  him  laugh — and  row  away. 

Lo  !  he  beckons — lo  !  he  urges — 
Through  the  noisy  waves  I  fly ; 

Off  he  speeds  across  the  surges, 
Laughing  out  with  louder  joy. 

"Wet  and  weary  I  retreated 

To  the  scene  of  revelry ; 
'Twas  a  fairy  dream  that  cheated — 

All  was  blank  obscurity. 


Poems  of  Love.  125 

Wanderer,  if  that  boat  should  ever 

Meet  thy  vision,  0  be  coy  ! 
'Tis  delusive — trust  him  never, — 

Cupid  is  a  wicked  boy. 

BATIUSHKOV  (Russian). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWKINO. 


THE  IJWITATIOJV. 

ZEPHYR,  that  gently  o'er  Ukraine  art  flying, 

Go  and  salute  my  Marina  for  me ; 
Whisper  her  tenderly,  sootliingly  sighing 

"  Lo,  he  has  sent  these  soft  accents  to  thee  !" 

Why  dost  thou  dwell,  my  sweet  maiden,  so  lonely  ? 

Why  dost  thou  dwell  in  so  gloomy  a  spot  ? 
Think  of  the  palace  of  Leopol ; — only 

Think,  my  fair  maid  !  though  thou  visit  it  not. 

There  in  thy  bower  is  a  window,  where  seated 
Often  thou  sheddedst  a  smile  on  thy  swain ; — 

There  have  my  sighs  oft  an  audience  entreated ; — 
Maiden,  that  window  invites  thee  again. 

Lady,  the  thought  of  thy  absence  has  shaded 
Even  the  flow'rets  with  sorrow  and  gloom ; 

All  the  bright  roses  and  lilies  are  faded, 

And  my  gay  orchard  is  stripped  of  its  bloom. 

Come,  my  fair  maid,  with  thy  beautiful  blushes, 
Shine  o'er  our  turrets, — 0  come  for  a  while ! 

Smile  on  us,  Lady — 0  smile — though  Red  Russia's 
Twice-castled  towers  may  deserve  not  thy  smile. 


126  Poems  of  Love. 

Lo,  it  expects  thee, — its  Lions  await  thee, 
Watching  like  sentinels  fixed  on  the  height ; 

Sleepless  and  eager  to  welcome  and  greet  thee 
When  thy  fair  vision  shall  dawn  on  their  sight. 

Haste,  maiden,  haste  !  scatter  blessings  around  thee  ; 

Laughter  and  wit  are  awaiting  thee  here ; 
Courtesies,  feastings,  and  smiles  shall  he  found  thee, 

Wanderings  and  wassails  to  honor  thee,  dear ! 

Here  have  we  centred  the  graces  and  pleasures — 
Come,  thou  bright  lady,  inherit  them  now ; — 

Kussia  pours  out  all  her  charms  and  her  treasures, 
Nothing  is  wanting, — 0  nothing  but  thou. 

SIMEON  ZIMOROWICZ  (Polish). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWRING. 


THE  WEJ\f3)ISH  POSTILLION. 

ACROSS  Lusatia's  sandy  plains 

A  youth,  both  fair  and  gay, 
Drove  on,  and  rung  his  cheerful  horn 

For  pastime  on  his  way. 

And  oft  he  tuned  his  horn  ;  but  still 
The  selfsame  notes  he  played ; 

And  yet  no  griefs  have  dimmed  his  smile, 
Though  cares  his  heart  invade. 

"  But  why  repeat  the  selfsame  song 

With  an  unvarying  tone  ; 
Has  music  in  this  land  but  one, 

But  one  sweet  voice  alone  ? " 


Poems  of  Love.  127 

"  O  many  a  song  we  sing :  for  songs 

Bring  rapture  to  the  breast : — 
But  one  is  dearer  far  than  all, — 

Far  dearer  than  the  rest." 

"  Why  round  thy  hat  these  roses  red, 

Flowers  of  unvaried  hue ; 
O  tell  me  in  what  garden  fair 

These  lovely  roses  grew?" 

"  O  all  our  fields  are  full  of  flowers : 

With  flowers  we  deck  the  maid ; 
With  roses  wreath  the  lover's  brow, 

And  gird  the  infant's  head." 

"  And  well  the  rose  becomes  thy  youth." 

"  'Twas  gathered  by  my  fair." 
*'  And  sweetly  dost  thou  sing  thy  song." 

"  My  maiden  taught  the  air !" 

So  spoke  the  youth,  while  blushes  deep 

Across  his  warm  cheek  roved : 
He  turned  away  his  bright  blue  eyes, 

And  sighed  to  her  he  loved. 

Again  he  waked  the  notes ; — they  rolled 

Through  glade  and  grove  along : 
How  blest  our  maiden's  rose  to  wear, 

And  sing  our  maiden's  song. 

LACK  SZYRMA  (Polish). 

Translation  of  SIB  JOHN  BOWRINO. 


128  Poems  of  Love. 


You  say  that  beauty  is  a  rose, 

And  you  are  right,  I  cannot  doubt  it ; 

Show  me  the  garden  where  it  grows, 
And  I  will  never  be  without  it. 

I'll  pluck  it  every  day,  and  be 

Fresh  as  the  buds  the  dews  drop  over, 

A  never-fading  flower  to  thee — 
Be  thou  to  me  a  faithful  lover. 

UNKNOWN  (Bohemian). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWBINO. 


BUT  for  my  father's  angry  talking, 
I'd  frankly  own  that  I  was  walking 
With  one  whom  he  could  not  discover, 
Frown  he  or  not ;  it  was  my  lover. 

And  if  my  father  would  not  scold  me, 
I'd  tell  him  what  my  lover  told  me  ; 
And  what  he  gave — a  secret  this  is — 
Scold  he  or  not ;  'twas  love's  sweet  kisses. 

And  if  my  father  would  not  wonder, 
I'd  tear  the  secret's  veil  asunder ; 
Wonder  or  not,  my  lover  made  me 
A  sweet  and  solemn  vow  to  wed  me. 

He  vow'd,  sincere  and  eager-hearted, 
E'en  while  he  kiss'd  me  as  we  parted, 
With  thee  he  would  not  leave  me  longer, 
But  claim  me  when  the  wheat  is  stronger. 

UNKNOWN  (Bohemian). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWRING. 


Poems  of  Love.  129 


WISHES. 

0  THAT  I  were  a  little  stream 

That  I  might  flow  to  him, — to  him  ! 

How  should  I  dance  with  joy  when  knowing 

To  whom  my  sparkling  wave  was  flowing ! 

Beneath  his  window  would  I  glide, 

And  linger  there  till  morning  tide ; 

When  first  he  rouses  him  to  dress 

In  comely  garb  his  manliness, 

Then,  should  he  weak  or  thirsty  be, 

0,  he  might  stoop  to  drink  of  me  ! 

Or  baring  there  his  bosom,  lave 

That  bosom  in  my  rippling  wave. 

O  what  a  bliss,  if  I  could  bear 

The  cooling  power  of  quiet  there  ! 

UNKNOWN  (Servian). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWRINO. 


AGAINST  white  Buda's  walls  a  vine 

Doth  its  white  branches  fondly  twine : 

0,  no !  it  was  no  vine  tree  there ; 

It  was  a  fond,  a  faithful  pair, 

Bound  each  to  each  in  earliest  vow — 

And,  O,  they  must  be  severed  now  ! 

And  these  their  farewell  words  :  "  We  part — 

Break  from  my  bosom,  break,  my  heart ! 

Go  to  a  garden — go  and  see 

Some  rose-branch  blushing  on  the  tree ; 

And  from  that  branch  a  rose-flower  tear, 

Then  place  it  on  thy  bosom  bare ; 


130  Poems  of  Love. 

And  as  its  leaflets  fade  and  pine, 
So  fades  my  sinking  heart  in  thine." 
And  thus  the  other  spoke  : — "  My  love, 
A  few  short  paces  backward  move, 
And  to  the  verdant  forest  go ; 
There's  a  fresh  water-fount  below ; 
And  in  the  fount  a  marble  stone, 
Which  a  gold  cup  reposes  on ; 
And  in  the  cup  a  ball  of  snow : 
Love,  take  that  ball  of  snow  to  rest 
Upon  thine  heart — within  thy  breast ; 
And  as  it  melts  unnoticed  there, 
So  melts  my  heart  in  thine,  my  dear ! " 

UNKNOWN  (Servian). 

Translation  of  SIB  JOHN  BOWEINO. 


TELL  me,  ye  reapers,  tell  me  have  ye  found, 
While  binding  up  your  sheaves  of  golden  corn, 
A  little,  laughing,  lovely  boy,  around 
Whose  curly  locks  a  harvest- wreath  is  bound  ? 
Ye  shepherds,  who  with  dew-damp  feet  at  morn 
Track  your  white  lambs,  say  have  ye  seen  forlorn 
A  gentle  joyous  child,  that  o'er  the  ground 
Trips  sportively  1     Ye  forests,  that  adorn 
The  mountains,  ye  sweet  birds,  ye  flowing  rills, 
Ye  list'ning  rocks,  heard  ye  that  voice's  sound, 
Whose  strain  of  music  thro'  creation  thrills  1 
If  ye  have  seen  not,  heard  not,  pity  me — 
Help  me  to  find  the  maid  I  love,  and  be 
Milder  than  unrelenting  destiny. 

JOHN  KOLLAB  (Bohemian). 

Translation  of  SIB  JOHN  BOWBINO. 


Poems  of  Love.  131 


TO 

YES  !  let  me  wander  by  that  flower-bank'd  stream 

Which  pours  its  fountains  out  by  Praga's  wall ; 
Go  !  toil  for  honor  in  the  fields  of  fame  : 

Fame — all  Bohemia  wakens  at  its  call. 
Where  my  young  days  pass'd  by  in  blissful  thought 

Is  now  a  dreary  solitude  to  me ;  • 
The  scenes  which  peace  and  love  and  beauty  brought 

Are  darkness  all,  because  estrang'd  from  thee. 

Thou  wert  an  ever-sparkling  light,  but  now 

Art  a  pale  meteor  trembling  in  the  sky  : 
I  see  thy  name  carv'd  on  the  maple's  bough, 

Or  by  the  moon's  gold  sickle  writ  on  high ; 
There  do  my  loud  sighs  wed  them  to  the  wind, 

And  harps  ^Eolian  in  the  grotto  play ; 
Be  present  to  my  eyes,  as  to  my  mind, 

Hither  again,  0  hither  bend  thy  way. 

'Midst  the  dark  foliage  in  the  full-moon's  light 

Thou  didst  first  fan  the  fire  of  holiest  love ; 
There  did  my  pure  lips  pledge  their  early  plight, 

While  listening  nightingales  were  group'd  above. 
Hear  (saidst  thou),  hear  my  words,  thou  blue-bright  Heaven  ; 

Hear  them,  thou  moon  !  whom  yon  fair  stars  attend ; 
And  if  I  leave  thee,  curs'd  and  unforgiven, 

Let  poison  with  each  breeze,  each  breathing  blend. 

O  thou  wilt  see,  bewitching,  blinding  maids, 

Maids  who  o'er  youth's  fond  dreams  supremely  reign ; 

And  thou  wilt  then  forget  Bohemia's  shades, 
And  thou  wilt  wear  affection's  foreign  chain. 


132  Poems  of  Love. 

Those  ringlet-tresses,  those  black,  beaming  eyes, 
I  know  they  will  intoxicate ;  I  know 

How  they  will  dazzle,  while  thy  Kraska  flies 
Fading  and  fading  more,  and  dwells  with  woe. 

I  hear  the  rattling  troop — I  feel  the  earth 

Is  shaking  'neath  the  chargers — so  begone. 
I  hear  the  drums  loud  rolling — and  the  mirth 

Of  battle-loving  heroes — Kwetslaw — on  ! 
On  to  the  banner !  yet  one  kiss,  thou  bold 

Heart-chosen  man — fame  calls  thee — no  delay ; 
Take  the  sharp  steel — 'tis  glittering  in  its  hold ; 

Thy  Kraska's  hand  shall  bind  it — now  away  ! 

Now  battle  like  a  Ceskian,  and  success, 

Success  walk  still  unwearied  at  thy  side, 
Courageous  but  discreet — Yet  forward  press 

As  cataracts  adown  the  mountain  side. 
The  kiss  I  give  thee  now,  0  let  it  burn 

Like  sacred  fire  upon  thy  lips,  until 
To  thine  enraptur'd  maid  thou  shalt  return, 

And  godlike  thoughts  her  widening  bosom  fill. 

MILOTA  ZDIBAD  POLAK  (Bohemian). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWRING. 


TO 

MY  country  calls  me,  Kraska  !  dry  thine  eyes, 

Disturb  not  with  thy  tears  youth's  quiet  flow ; 
Rend  not  my  heart,  nor  chill  thine  own  with  sighs ; 

Thy  rosy  cheeks  are  mantled  o'er  with  snow. 
Weep  not  because  thy  Ceskian  leaves  thee — No  ! 

The  mighty  lion  on  the  flag  unfurl'd 
Roars  with  loud  voice,  and  bids  the  warriors  go — 

Wealth,  heart,  and  blood,  our  country,  and  the  world. 


Poems  of  Love.  133 

How  sweet  and  silent  were  our  early  days, 

Gliding  like  meadow  streamlets  soft  and  still ; 
Enjoyment  threw  o'er  every  hour  its  rays, 

Anxious,  life's  cup  with  flowing  bliss  to  fill. 
But  soon,  too  soon,  that  bliss  has  been  o'ercast, 

Which  made  me  the  world's  envy ;  now  the  frost, 
The  silver  frost  of  sorrow  makes  a  waste 

Of  my  once  glowing  spirit ;  all  is  lost. 

Yet  will  I  prize  thy  love — the  love  I've  sworn, 

That  love  shall  lead  through  immortality. 
Think  not  that  white-arm'd  maidens'  smile  or  scorn 

Can  for  an  instant  lure  my  thoughts  from  thee 
No  dimples,  howsoever  lovely — grace, 

Howe'er  majestic — pearly  teeth  in  rows — 
Mouth  breathing  sweets — Can  these — can  these  efface 

Thy  memory  ?     Never  ! — or  thy  sway  oppose  ? — 

In  the  night's  silence,  at  the  twilight's  dawn, 

Whene'er  I  gird  my  sabre  to  my  side ; 
When  eve  around  the  hills  her  clouds  has  drawn, 

Then  always  shall  I  think  of  thee,  and  glide 
In  fancy  to  thy  presence,  midst  the  roar 

Of  cannons,  and  the  flash  of  swords,  and  hiss 
Of  bullets,  while  like  seeds  of  thistles  o'er 

Torn  limbs  fly  by,  thy  love  shall  be  my  bliss. 

Should  I  return  to  our  Bohemian  land, 

When  the  blest  trump  of  peace  is  heard  again, 
What  bliss — what  bliss  supreme  to  take  thy  hand — 

How  will  my  spirit  thrill  with  rapture  then  ! 
Thy  rosy  lips  my  eager  kiss  shall  press, 

My  arms  around  thy  smiling  form  shall  be ; 
Thine  eyes,  thy  cheeks,  the  kiss  of  love  shall  bless ; 

0  !  the  unutterable  ecstasy  ! 


134  Poems  of  Love. 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  trumpet's  call — the  banner  flies 

High  flapping  in  the  wind — our  lions  shake 
Their  grisly  manes — thou  maid  of  Paradise, 

Come  hither — come — thy  hero's  sabre  take, 
And  gird  it  on — and  bless  him — and  one  kiss — 

One  kiss — and  then — and  then — what  words  can  tell 
My  thoughts — thou  joy,  hope,  peace,  song,  love,  and  bliss — - 

My  more  than  Heaven — farewell — farewell— farewell ! 

MILOTA  ZDIEAD  POLAK  (Bohemian). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWBING. 


PERSONAL    POEMS. 


OLYMPIC     ODE    II. 


TO  THEftON  OF  AG'RIG&JYTlfM. 

Victor  in  the  Chariot-race. 

STROPHE   I. 

HYMNS,  that  rule  the  living  lyre, 

What  god,  what  hero  shall  we  sing  ? 
What  mortal's  praise  the  strain  inspire  ? — 

Jove  is  Pisa's  guardian  king  : 

Hercules  th'  Olympiad  plann'd, 

Trophy  of  his  conquering  hand  : 
But  Theron,  whose  bright  axle  won, 
With  four  swift  steeds,  the  chariot  crown, 

Noblest  of  hosts,  our  song  shall  grace, 
The  prop  of  Agrigentum's  fame, 

Flower  of  an  old  illustrious  race, 
Whose  upright  rule  his  prospering  states  proclaim. 

ANTISTROPHE  I. 

Press'd  with  ills,  yon  sacred  pile, 
Yon  stream  his  fathers  held,  and  shone 

The  eyes  of  all  Sicilia's  isle : 
Inborn  virtue  was  their  own ; 

Public  favor,  wealth  and  power 

Reached  them  in  their  destined  hour. 


136  Personal  Poems. 


But  thou,  that  rulest  th'  Olympian  dome, 
Saturnian  son  of  Rhea's  womb, 

God  of  the  noblest  games  divine, 
And  Alpheus'  stream  that  wanders  near, 

Soothed  with  our  song,  to  all  his  line 
Vouchsafe  their  Sire's  dominion  long  to  bear. 

EPODE   I. 

Virtue's  achievement,  Folly's  crime, 

Whate'er  of  guilt  or  good  the  past  has  known, 
Not  e'en  the  Sire  of  all  things,  mighty  Time, 

Hath  power  to  change,  or  make  the  deed  undone. 

But,  when  the  prosperous  hour  returns, 
O'er  woes  long  wept  Oblivion  softly  lays 

Her  shadowy  veil ;  and  from  the  heart  that  mourns, 
By  goodlier  joys  subdued,  th'  inveterate  bane  decays. 

STROPHE  II. 

Thus  rewarding  Heaven  and  Fate 

Exalted  bliss  at  length  bestow ; 
As  Cadmus'  daughters,  throned  in  state, 

Teach  the  moral  strain  to  show. 

Great  their  ills ;  but  heaviest  woe 

Mightier  good  can  soon  o'erthrow : 
For  Semele,  once  to  vengeance  given, 
Now  waves  her  flowing  locks  in  Heaven ; 

She,  by  the  rattling  thunder  slain, 
To  Pallas  dear,  caressed  by  Jove, 

Among  the  Olympians  lives  again, 
And  meets  her  Ivied  Boy's  requited  love. 

ANTISTROPHE  II. 

Bosom'd  in  the  briny  deep, 

'Mong  Nereids  green,  as  story  tells, 
While  Time  his  circling  course  shall  keep, 

Aye  immortal  Ino  dv.-'lK 


Personal  Poems.  137 


'Tis  not  given  for  man  to  know 

"When  pale  Death  shall  strike  the  blow, 
Nor  e'en  if  one  serener  Day, 
The  Sun's  brief  child,  shall  pass  away 

Unclouded  as  it  rose.     The  waves 
Of  life  with  ceaseless  changes  flow, 

And,  as  the  tempest  sleeps  or  raves, 
Bring  triumph  or  disaster,  weal  or  woe. 


EPODE  II. 

The  Genius,  thus,  whose  power  upholds 
The  prosperous  destiny  of  Theron's  race, 

And  sends  them  wealth  from  Heaven,  a  scene  unfolds, 
In  times  long  past,  of  vengeance  and  disgrace — 

Vengeance  from  that  ill-omen'd  hour 

When  son  and  sire  in  foul  encounter  met ; 

And  all,  that  Pythian  threat  denounced  of  yore, 

In  Lams'  murder  mix'd,  consistent  and  complete. 

STROPHE  III. 

Quick  the  sharp-eyed  Fury  flew, 

And,  as  the  strife  she  stirr'd,  apace 
Kindred  their  warlike  kindred  slew ; 

Social  bloodshed  thinn'd  the  race. 

Polynices  bit  the  ground ; 

Sole  Thersander  lived,  renowned 

In  youthful  game  or  martial  fray, 

Of  brave  Adrastus'  house  the  stay. 

Sprung  from  that  old  heroic  sire, 
(Enesidamus  bids  us  raise 

Th'  applauding  lay,  and  sweep  the  lyre 
Through  all  its  thrilling  chords  in  Theron's  praise. 
12 


138  Personal  Poems. 


ANTISTROPHE   III. 

'Midst  Olympia's  shouting  bands 

With  the  proud  prize  himself  was  crowned ; 
While  rival  wreaths  from  Isthmian  hands 

Waved  his  brother's  temples  round ; 

Fortune's  favorite  !  o'er  his  brow 

Blended  hung  the  Pythian  bough. 
With  fourfold  team  in  rapid  race 
Twelve  times  he  scour'd  the  circling  space ; 

Before  Success  the  Sorrows  fly ; 
And  Wealth  more  bright  with  virtue  join'd, 

Brings  golden  Opportunity, 
The  sparkling  star,  the  sun-beam  of  mankind ; 

EPODE   III. 

Brings  to  the  rich  man's  restless  heart 

Ambition's  splendid  cares.     No  less  he  knows 
The  day  fast  comes  when  all  men  must  depart, 

And  pay  for  present  pride  in  future  woes. 

The  deeds  that  frantic  mortals  do 
In  this  disorder'd  nook  of  Jove's  domain, 

All  meet  their  meed ;  and  there's  a  Judge  below 
Whose  hateful  doom  inflicts  th'  inevitable  pain. 

STROPHE   IV. 

O'er  the  Good  soft  suns  the  while 

Through  the  mild  day,  the  night  serene, 
Alike  with  cloudless  lustre  smile, 

Tempering  all  the  tranquil  scene. 

Theirs  is  leisure ;  vex  not  they 

Stubborn  soil  or  watery  way, 
To  wring  from  toil  want's  worthless  bread ; 
No  ills  they  know,  no  tears  they  shed, 


Personal  Poems.  139 


But  with  the  glorious  gods  below 
Ages  of  peace  contented  share. 

Meanwhile  the  Bad  with  bitterest  woe 
Eye-startling  tasks  and  endless  tortures  wear. 

ANTISTROPHE  IV. 

All,  whose  stedfast  virtue  thrice 

Each  side  the  grave  unchanged  hath  stood 
Still  unseduced,  unstain'd  with  vice, 

They  by  Jove's  mysterious  road 
Pass  by  Saturn's  realm  of  rest, 

Happy  isle  that  holds  the  blest ; 
Where  sea-born  breezes  gently  blow 
O'er  blooms  of  gold  that  round  them  glow, 

Which  Nature  boon  from  stream  or  strand 
Or  goodly  tree  profusely  pours ; 

Whence  pluck  they  many  a  fragrant  band, 
And  braid  their  locks  with  never-fading  flowers. 

EPODE  IV, 

Such  Ehadamanthus'  mandate  wise  : 

He  on  the  judgment-bench,  associate  meet, 
By  ancient  Saturn  sits,  prompt  to  advise 

The  spouse  of  Rhea,  whose  high  throne  is  set 
Above  all  powers  in  Earth  or  Heaven. 

Peleus  and  Cadmus  there  high  honors  crown ; 
The  like  to  great  Achilles  largely  given 

With  prayers  from  yielding  Jove  persuasive  Thetis  given. 

STROPHE  V. 

Hector  he,  the  pillar  of  Troy 

By  mightiest  arms  unmoved,  o'erthrew, 
And  bright  Aurora's  ^Ethiop  boy  : 

He  the  godlike  Cycnus  slew — 


140  Personal  Poems. 


On  my  quiver'd  arm  I  bear 

Many  an  arrow  swift  and  rare ; 
Dealt  to  the  wise  delight  they  bring, 
To  vulgar  ears  unmeaning  ring. 

Genius  his  stores  from  nature  draws ; 
In  words  not  wit  the  learned  shine ; 

Clamorous  in  vain,  like  croaking  daws, 
They  rail  against  the  bird  of  Jove  divine. 

ANTISTROPHE  V. 

Heed  not  thou  their  envious  tongue, 

Straight  to  the  mark  advance  thy  bow ; 
Whither,  brave  spirit,  shall  thy  song 

Throw  the  shaft  of  glory  now  ? 

Lo  it  flies,  by  Justice  sent, 

Full  at  famous  Agrigent ; 
"While  truth  inspires  me  thus  to  swear, 
That  Time  shall  waste  his  hundredth  year 

Ere  race  or  realm  a  king  shall  raise, 
"Whose  liberal  heart,  whose  loaded  hand, 

Shall  paragon  with  Theron's  praise, 
Or  strew,  like  his,  its  blessings  through  the  land. 

EPODE  V. 

Yet  e'en  his  virtues  to  assail 

Hath  headstrong  Envy  spurr'd  Injustice  forth, 
Plotting  with  hostile  arm,  and  slanderous  tale, 

To  hide  in  mischief's  shade  the  lamp  of  worth. 
But,  if  the  numberer  toils  in  vain 
To  count  the  sands  that  heap  the  wave-worn  beach ; 

The  joys,  the  graces  of  his  bounteous  reign 
What  memory  can  record  ?     What  soaring  song  can  reach  1 

PINDAB  (Greek). 

Translation  of  ABRAHAM  MOORE. 


Personal  Poems.  141 


ON  SOPHOCLES. 

WIND,  gentle  evergreen,  to  form  a  shade 
Around  the  tomb  where  Sophocles  is  laid ; 
Sweet  ivy,  lend  thine  aid,  and  intertwine 
With  blushing  roses  and  the  clustering  vine : 
Thus  shall  your  lasting  leaves,  with  beauties  hung, 
Prove  grateful  emblems  of  the  lays  he  sung. 

SIMMIAS  (Greek). 
Translation  of  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 


TO 


IN  myrtle  my  sword  will  I  wreathe, 
Like  our  patriots  the  noble  and  brave, 

Who  devoted  the  tyrant  to  death, 
And  to  Athens  equality  gave. 

Loved  Harmodius,  thou  never  shalt  die  ! 

The  poets  exultingly  tell, 
That  thine  is  the  fulness  of  joy, 

Where  Achilles  and  Diomed  dwell. 

In  myrtle  my  sword  will  I  wreathe, 
Like  our  patriots  the  noble  and  brave, 

Who  devoted  Hipparchus  to  death, 
And  buried  his  pride  in  the  grave. 

At  the  altar  the  tyrant  they  seized, 
While  Minerva  he  vainly  implor'd  ; 

And  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom  was  pleased 
With  the  victim  of  Liberty's  sword. 

CALLISTRATUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  DENMAN. 


142  Personal  Poems. 


OF  'PTOLEMY 


FROM   THE    FOURTEENTH    IDYL. 

WHAT  is  his  character  ?     A  royal  spirit 

To  point  out  genius  and  encourage  merit  ; 

The  poet's  friend,  humane,  and  good,  and  kind  ; 

Of  manners  gentle,  and  of  generous  mind. 

He  marks  his  friend,  but  more  he  marks  his  foe  ; 

His  hand  is  ever  ready  to  bestow  ; 

Request  with  reason,  and  he'll  grant  the  thing, 

And  what  he  gives,  he  gives  it  like  a  king. 

THEOCRITUS  (Creel). 

Translation  of  F.  FAWKES. 

ZAMEJYT  FOR  &ZOJV. 

OH  forest  dells  and  streams  !  oh  Dorian  tide  ! 
Groan  with  my  grief,  since  lovely  Bion  died  : 
Ye  plants  and  copses,  now  his  loss  bewail  : 
Flowers,  from  your  tufts  a  sad  perfume  exhale  ; 
Anemones  and  roses,  mournful  show 
Your  crimson  leaves,  and  wear  a  blush  of  woe  : 
And  hyacinth,  now  more  than  ever  spread 
The  woeful  ah  !  that  marks  thy  petal'd  head 
With  letter'd  grief  ;  the  beauteous  minstrel's  dead. 

Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe  : 
Ye  nightingales,  whose  plaintive  warblings  flow 
From  the  thick  leaves  of  some  embowering  wood, 
Tell  the  sad  loss  to  Arethusa's  flood  : 
The  shepherd  Bion  dies  :  with  him  is  dead 
The  life  of  song  :  the  Doric  Muse  is  fled. 

Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe  : 
Where  Strymon's  gliding  waters  smoothly  flow, 


Personal  Poems.  143 


Ye  swans,  chant  soft  with  saddest  murmuring 
Such  notes  as  Bion's  self  was  wont  to  sing : 
Let  Thracia's  maids,  the  nymphs  of  Haemus,  learn, 
The  Doric  Orpheus  slumbers  in  his  urn. 

Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe  : 
The  herds  no  more  that  chant  melodious  know : 
No  more  beneath  the  lonely  oaks  he  sings, 
But  breathes  his  strains  to  Lethe's  sullen  springs : 
The  mountains  now  are  mute ;  the  heifers  pass 
Slow-wandering  by,  nor  browse  the  tender  grass. 

Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe  : 
For  thee,  oh  Bion  !  in  the  grave  laid  low, 
Apollo  weeps :  dark  palls  the  Sylvan's  shroud : 
Fauns  ask  thy  wonted  song,  and  wail  aloud : 
Each  fountain-nymph  disconsolate  appears, 
And  all  her  waters  turn  to  trickling  tears ; 
Mute  Echo  pines  the  silent  rocks  around, 
And  mourns  those  lips,  that  waked  their  sweetest  sound ; 
Trees  dropp'd  their  fruitage  at  thy  fainting  breath, 
And  flowers  were  wither'd  at  the  blast  of  death : 
The  flocks  no  more  their  luscious  milk  bestow'd, 
Nor  from  the  hive  the  golden  honey  flow'd : 
Grief  in  its  cells  the  flowery  nectar  dried, 
And  honey  lost  its  sweets  when  Bion  died. 

The  dirge  of  woe,  Sicilian  Muses  !  pour : 
Ne'er  mourn'd  the  dolphin  on  the  ocean  shore, 
Ne'er  on  the  rocks  so  sang  the  nightingale, 
Nor  the  sad  swallow  in  the  mountain  dale  ; 
Ne'er  did  the  halcyon's  notes  so  plaintive  flow ; 
Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe  : 

Nor  e'er  the  sea-mew  shrill'd  its  mournful  strain 
Midst  the  blue  waters  of  the  glassy  main ; 
Nor  the  Memnonian  bird  was  wont  to  sing 
In  Eastern  vales,  light-hovering  on  the  wing, 


144  Personal  Poems. 


Where  slept  Aurora's  son  within  the  tomb, 
As  when  they  wail'd  the  lifeless  Bion's  doom. 

Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe : 
The  swallows,  nightingales,  that  wont  to  know 
His  pipe  with  joy ;  whose  throats  he  taught  to  sing, 
Perch'd  on  the  branches  made  their  dirges  ring : 
All  other  birds  replied  from  all  the  grove ; 
And  ye  too  mourn,  oh  every  woodland  dove ! 

Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe  ; 
Who,  dear-beloved !  thy  silent  flute  shall  blow  ? 
What  hardy  lip  shall  thus  adventurous  be  1 
Thy  lip  has  touch'd  the  pipe ;  it  breathes  of  thee. 
Mute  Echo,  too,  has  caught  the  warbled  sound 
In  whispering  reeds,  that  vocal  tremble  round : 
I  bear  the  pipe  to  Pan :  yet,  haply  he 
May  fear  the  trial  lest  eclips'd  by  thee. 

Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe  : 
The  tears  of  pensive  Galateea  flow 
Missing  thy  songs,  which  on  her  ear  would  glide, 
When  on  the  sea-shore  sitting  by  thy  side : 
Unlike  the  Cyclops'  music  was  thy  lay, 
For  she,  from  him,  disdainful  fled  away  : 
She  from  the  ocean  look'd  on  thee  serene. 
And  now,  forgetful  of  the  watery  scene, 
Still  on  the  desert  sands,  beside  the  brine, 
She  feeds  the  wandering  herds,  that  late  were  thine. 

Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe  : 
Whatever  gift  the  Muses  could  bestow 
Are  dead  with  thee  ;  whate'er  the  damsels  gave 
Of  sweet-lipp'd  kisses,  buried  in  thy  grave. 
Around  thy  sepulchre  the  Loves  deplore 
Their  loss ;  and  Venus,  shepherd  !  loves  thee  more 
Than  the  soft  kiss,  which  late  she  bent  to  sip 
From  dying  fragrance  of  Adonis'  lip. 


Personal  Poems.  145 


Oh,  Meles  !  most  melodious  stream  !  behold 

Another  grief,  like  Homer's  loss  of  old, 

Calliope's  sweet  mouth :  thy  streams  did  run 

In  wailing  tides  to  mourn  that  mighty  son : 

Thou  with  thy  voice  didst  fill  the  greater  sea : 

Behold  another  son  is  lost  to  thee  : 

Shrunk  are  thy  streams ;  both  bathed  in  holiest  dews ; 

Both  dear  alike  to  fountains  of  the  Muse  : 

This  drank  where  Pegasus  had  delved  the  hill ; 

That  dipp'd  the  cup  in  Arethusa's  rill : 

This  sang  Tyndarian  Helen's  matchless  charms, 

Thetis'  great  son,  and  Menelaus'  arms : 

But  that  no  wars,  no  tears,  in  numbers  roll'd ; 

Pan,  swains,  he  sang,  and  singing  fed  his  fold ; 

The  sweet-breath'd  heifer  milk'd ;  the  pipes  combined, 

And  taught  how  damsels  kiss  most  melting  kind : 

The  infant  Love  he  fondled  on  his  breast, 

And  Venus'  self  her  soothest  swain  caress'd. 

Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe  : 
Tears  for  thy  loss  through  famous  cities  flow : 
Ascra  less  pensive  bends  o'er  Hesiod's  urn, 
And  less  Boeotia's  woods  for  Pindar  mourn  : 
Not  so  tower'd  Lesbos  weeps  Alcseus'  strains, 
Or  Cos  for  lost  Simonides  complains : 
Paros  regrets  Archilochus  no  more, 
And  Mitylene  scorns  for  thine  her  Sappho's  lore. 
What  though  the  Syracusan  vales  among 
Theocritus  may  tune  a  defter  song ; 
I  sing  Italian  ditties  sad ;  nor  they 
Too  far  are  strange  from  that  Bucolic  lay 
Which  from  thy  lips  thy  list'ning  scholars  caught ; 
Heirs  of  the  Doric  Muse,  which  Bion  taught. 
Thy  wealth  to  others  left  unmoved  I  see, 
For  thou  hast  left  thy  minstrelsy  to  me. 
13 


146  Personal  Poems. 


Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe  : 
Ah,  me  !  ah,  me  !  the  fading  mallows  strow 
The  garden  beds :  the  parsley's  verdant  wreath, 
And  crisped  anise  shed  their  bloomy  breath  : 
Yet  the  new  year  shall  fresh  existence  give, 
Warm,  their  green  veins,  and  bid  them  blow  and  live. 
But  we,  the  great,  the  valiant,  and  the  wise, 
When  once  in  death  we  close  our  pallid  eyes : 
In  earth's  dark  caverns,  senseless,  slumber  o'er 
The  long  and  endless  sleep,  the  sleep  that  wakes  no  more. 
Thou,  too,  in  silence  of  the  ground  art  laid  : 
The  nymphs  are  pleased  that  croaking  frogs  invade 
Their  list'ning  ears ;  and  let  them  sing  for  me : 
The  song  that's  discord  cannot  envied  be. 

Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe  : 
Poison  has  touch'd  thy  lips ;  its  venom  slow 
Has  curdled  in  thy  veins ;  and  could'st  thou  sip, 
Nor  poison  turn  to  honey  on  thy  lip  ? 
What  man  so  hard  could  mix  the  draught  for  thee, 
Or  bid  be  mix'd,  nor  feel  thy  melody  ? 

Sicilian  Muses,  pour  the  dirge  of  woe ; 
But  retribution  sure  will  deal  the  blow  : 
I,  in  this  trance  of  grief,  still  drop  the  tear, 
And  mourn  forever  o'er  thy  livid  bier ; 
Oh  that  as  Orpheus,  in  the  days  of  yore, 
Ulysses,  or  Alcides,  pass'd  before, 
I  could  descend  to  Pluto's  house  of  night, 
And  mark  if  thou  would'st  Pluto's  ear  delight, 
And  listen  to  the  song :  oh  then  rehearse 
Some  sweet  Sicilian  strain,  Bucolic  verse, 
To  soothe  the  maid  of  Enna's  vale,  who  sang 
These  Doric  songs,  while  ^Etna's  upland  rang. 
Not  unrewarded  shall  thy  ditties  prove  : 
As  the  sweet  harper  Orpheus,  erst  could  move 


Personal  Poems.  147 


Her  breast  to  yield  his  dear  departed  wife, 
Treading  the  backward  road  from  death  to  life ; 
So  shall  he  melt  to  Bion's  Dorian  strain, 
And  send  him  joyous  to  his  hills  again. 
Oh  could  my  touch  command  the  stops  like  thee, 
1  too  would  seek  the  dead,  and  sing  thee  free. 

MOSCHUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


OJV  OlfPHEUS. 

No  more,  sweet  Orpheus  !  shalt  thou  lead  along 
Oaks,  rocks,  and  savage  monsters  with  thy  song, 
Fetter  the  winds,  the  struggling  hail-storm  chain, 
The  snowy  desert  soothe,  and  sounding  main ; 
For  thou  art  dead ; — the  Muses  o'er  thy  bier, 
Sad  as  thy  parent,  pour  the  tuneful  tear. 
Weep  we  a  child  ? — Xot  e'en  the  gods  can  save 
Their  glorious  offspring  from  the  hated  grave. 

ANTIPATER  OF  SIDON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  ROBERT  BLAND. 


ON  THE  PICTURE  Of 


ON  yonder  tablet  graved  I  see 
The  form  of  my  Thymarete,  — 
Her  gracious  smile,  her  lofty  air, 
Warm  as  in  life,  all  blended  there. 
Her  little  fondled  dog,  that  keeps 
Still  watch  around  her  while  she  sleeps, 
Would  in  that  shape  his  mistress  trace, 
And,  fawning,  lick  her  honored  face. 

NOSSIS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


148  Personal  Poems. 


OJY  HOMER. 

DIM  grow  the  planets  when  the  god  of  Day 
Rolls  his  swift  chariot  through  the  heavenly  way ; 
The  moon's  immortal  round,  no  longer  bright, 
Shrinks  in  pale  terror  from  the  glorious  light : — 
Thus,  all  eclipsed  by  Homer's  wondrous  blaze, 
The  crowd  of  poets  hide  their  lessened  rays. 

LEONIDAS  OF  TARENTUM  (Greek). 

Translation  of  FRANCIS  HODGSON. 


ON 

STRANGERS,  who  near  this  statue  chance  to  roam, 
Let  it  awhile  your  studious  eyes  engage ; 

And  you  may  say,  returning  to  your  home, 
"  I've  seen  the  image  of  the  Teian  sage — 

Best  of  the  bards  who  grace  the  Muses'  page." 

Then,  if  you  add,  "  Youth  loved  him  passing  well," 
You  tell  them  all  he  was,  and  aptly  telL 

THEOCRITUS  (Greek). 

Translation  from  BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE. 


OJV  THEMIS  TOCLES. 

THERE  lay  Themistocles — to  spread  his  fame 

A  lasting  column  Salamis  shall  be ; 
Raise  not,  weak  man,  to  that  immortal  name 

The  little  records  of  mortality. 
Greece  be  the  monument :  around  her  throw 

The  broken  trophies  of  the  Persian  fleet ; 
Inscribe  the  gods  that  led  the  insulting  foe, 

And  mighty  Xerxes  at  the  tablet's  feet. 

TULLIUS  GEMINUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MEBIVALE. 


Personal  Poems.  149 


OJV 

FEW  were  thy  notes,  Erinna, — short  thy  lay, — 

But  thy  short  lay  the  Muse  herself  hath  given ; 
Thus  never  shall  thy  memory  decay, 

Nor  night  obscure  thy  fame,  which  lives  in  Heaven ; 
While  we,  the  unnumbered  bards  of  after-times, 

Sink  in  the  melancholy  grave  unseen, 
Unhonored  reach  Avernus'  fabled  climes, 

And  leave  no  record  that  we  once  have  been. 

ANTIPATER  OF  SIDON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 

OJV  'PIJWA'R. 

As  the  loud  trumpet  to  the  goatherd's  pipe, 

So  sounds  thy  lyre,  all  other  sounds  surpassing ; 
Since  round  thy  lips,  in  infant  fulness  ripe, 

Swarm  honied  bees,  their  golden  stores  amassing. 
Thine  Pindar  !  be  the  palm, — by  him  decreed 

Who  holds  on  Maenalus  his  royal  sitting ; 
Who,  for  thy  love,  forsook  his  simple  reed, 

And  hymns  thy  lays  in  strains  a  god  befitting. 

ANTIPATER  OP  SIDON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 

THE  TOMS  OF1  THEMIS  TOCLES. 

BY  the  sea's  margin,  on  the  watery  strand, 
Thy  monument,  Themistocles,  shall  stand. 
By  this  directed  to  thy  native  shore, 
The  merchant  shall  convey  his  freighted  store ; 
And  when  our  fleets  are  summon'd  to  the  fight, 
Athens  shall  conquer  with  thy  tomb  in  sight. 

PLATO,  THE  COMIC  POET  (Greek). 

Translation  of  RICHARD  CUMBERLAND. 


150  Personal  Poems. 


OJV 

DOES  Sappho  then  beneath  thy  bosom  rest, 
^Eolian  earth  ! — that  mortal  Muse  conf  est 
Inferior  only  to  the  choir  above, 
That  foster-child  of  Venus  and  of  Love, 
Warm  from  whose  lips  divine  Persuasion  came 
To  ravish  Greece  and  raise  the  Lesbian  name  ? 
0  ye  !  who  ever  twine  the  three-fold  thread, 
Ye  Fates,  why  number  with  the  silent  dead 
That  mighty  songstress,  whose  unrivall'd  powers 
Weave  for  the  Muse  a  crown  of  deathless  flowers. 

ANTIPATER  OF  SIDON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  FRANCIS  HODGSON. 


THESE  the  maids  of  heavenly  tongue, 
Eear'd  Pierian  cliffs  among : 
Anyte,  as  Homer  strong, 
Sappho,  star  of  Lesbian  song ; 
Erinna,  famous  Telesilla, 
Myro  fair,  and  fair  Praxilla ; 
Corinna,  she  that  sung  of  yore, 
The  dreadful  shield  Minerva  bore ; 
Myrtis  sweet,  and  Nossis,  known 
For  tender  thought  and  melting  tone ; 
Framers  all  of  deathless  pages, 
Joys  that  live  for  endless  ages ; 
Nine  the  Muses,  fam'd  in  Heaven, 
And  nine  to  mortals  earth  has  given. 

ANTIPATER  OF  TIIESSALONICA  (Greek). 

Translation  of  JOHN  WILSON. 


Personal  Poems.  151 


OJV  TM&  PICTURE  OF  SAPPHO. 

NATURE  herself  this  magic  portrait  drew, 
And  painter  !  gave  thy  Lesbian  muse  to  view. 
Light  sparkles  in  her  eyes  ;  and  Fancy  seems 
The  radiant  fountain  of  those  living  beams  : 
Through  the  smooth  fulness  of  the  unclouded  skin 
Looks  out  the  clear  ingenuous  soul  within  ; 
Joy  melts  to  fondness  in  her  glistening  face, 
And  Love  and  Music  breathe  a  mingled  grace. 

DEMOCHARIS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  FRANCIS  HODOSON. 


TO  TJI&  AJVJVIYE'RSA'RY  OJ? 


TO-MORROW,  Piso,  at  the  evening  hour, 

Your  friend  will  lead  you  to  his  simple  bower, 

To  keep  with  feast  our  annual  twentieth  night  : 
If  there  you  miss  the  flask  of  Chian  wine, 
Yet  hearty  friends  you'll  meet,  and,  while  you  dine, 

Hear  strains  like  those  in  which  the  gods  delight. 
And,  if  you  kindly  look  on  us  the  while, 
We'll  reap  a  richer  banquet  from  your  smile. 

PHILODEMCS  (Greek). 

Tratislation  of  3   H.  MERJVALE. 

TO  Ms&CEJYAS. 

DESCENDED  of  an  ancient  line, 

That  long  the  Tuscan  sceptre  sway'd, 
Make  haste  to  meet  the  generous  wine, 

Whose  piercing  is  for  thee  delay'd  : 
The  rosy  wreath  is  ready  made  ; 
And  artful  hands  prepare 
The  fragrant  Syrian  oil,  that  shall  perfume  thy  hair. 


152  Personal  Poems. 


When  the  wine  sparkles  from  afar, 

And  the  well-natur'd  friend  cries,  Come  away  ! 

Make  haste,  and  leave  thy  business,  and  thy  care : 
No  mortal  interest  can  be  worth  thy  stay. 

Leave  for  a  while  thy  costly  country  seat ; 

And  to  be  great  indeed,  forget 

The  nauseous  pleasures  of  the  great. 

Make  haste  and  come  ! 

Come  and  forsake  thy  cloying  store ; 

Thy  turret  that  surveys,  from  high, 

The  smoke,  and  wealth,  and  noise  of  Rome; 

And  all  the  busy  pageantry, 

That  wise  men  scorn,  and  fools  adore : 

Come  give  thy  soul  a  loose,  and  taste  the  pleasures  of  the  poor. 

Sometimes  'tis  grateful  for  the  rich  to  try 
A  short  vicissitude,  and  fit  of  poverty : 
A  savory  dish,  a  homely  treat, 
Where  all  is  plain,  where  all  is  neat, 
Without  the  stately  spacious  room, 
The  Persian  carpet,  or  the  Tyrian  loom, 
Clear  up  the  cloudy  foreheads  of  the  great. 

The  sun  is  in  the  Lion  mounted  high, 

The  Syrian  star  barks  from  afar, 
And,  with  his  sultry  breath,  infects  the  sky ; 
The  groimd  below  is  parch 'd,  the  heavens  above  us  fry ; 

The  shepherd  drives  his  fainting  flock 

Beneath  the  covert  of  a  rock, 
And  seeks  refreshing  rivulets  nigh  : 
The  Sylvans  to  their  shades  retire, 
Those  very  shades  and  streams  new  shades  and  streams 

require, 
And  want  a  cooling  breeze  of  wind  to  fan  the  raging  fire. 


Personal  Poems.  153 


Thou,  what  befits  the  new  Lord  Mayor, 

And  what  the  city  factions  dare, 

And  what  the  Gallic  arms  will  do, 

And  what  the  quiver-bearing  foe, 

Art  anxiously  inquisitive  to  know ; 

But  God  has  wisely  hid,  from  human  sight, 

The  dark  decrees  of  future  fate, 

And  sown  their  seeds  in  depths  of  night. 

He  laughs  at  all  the  giddy  turns  of  state, 

When  mortals  search  too  soon,  and  fear  too  late. 

Enjoy  the  present  smiling  hour 

And  put  it  out  of  Fortune's  power ; 

The  tide  of  business,  like  the  running  stream, 

Is  sometimes  high,  and  sometimes  low, 

A  quiet  ebb,  or  a  tempestuous  flow, 
And  always  in  extreme. 

Now  with  a  noiseless  gentle  course 

It  keeps  within  the  middle  bed : 
Anon  it  lifts  aloft  the  head, 
And  bears  down  all  before  it  with  impetuous  force ; 

And  trunks  of  trees  come  rolling  down, 

Sheep  and  their  folds  together  drown ; 
Loth  house  and  homestead  into  seas  are  borne, 
And  rocks  are  from  their  old  foundations  torn, 
And  woods,  made  thin  with  winds,  their  scattered  honors 
mourn. 

Happy  the  man,  and  happy  he  alone, 

He  who  can  call  to-day  his  own  : 

He  who  secure  within  can  say, 

To-morrow  do  thy  worst,  for  I  have  lived  to-day  ! 


154  Personal  Poems. 


Be  fair  or  foul,  or  rain  or  shine, 

The  joys  I  have  possess'd,  in  spite  of  fate,  are  mine. 

Not  Heaven  itself  upon  the  past  has  power, 

But  what  has  been,  has  been,  and  I  have  had  my  hour. 

Fortune,  that,  with  malicious  joy, 

Does  man,  her  slave,  oppress, 
Proud  of  her  office  to  destroy, 

Is  seldom  pleased  to  bless ; 
Still  various,  and  inconstant  still, 
But  with  an  inclination  to  be  ill, 
Promotes,  degrades,  delights  in  strife, 
And  makes  a  lottery  of  life. 

I  can  enjoy  her  while  she's  kind ; 

But  when  she  dances  in  the  wind, 
And  shakes  her  wings,  and  will  not  stay, 
I  puff  the  prostitute  away  : 

The  little  or  the  much  she  gave  is  quietly  resigned : 
Content  with  poverty  my  soul  I  arm, 
And  virtue,  though  in  rags,  will  keep  me  warm. 

What  is  't  to  me, 

Who  never  sail  in  her  unfaithful  sea, 
If  storms  arise,  and  clouds  grow  black ; 
If  the  mast  split,  and  threaten  wreck  ? 
Then  let  the  greedy  merchant  fear 

For  his  ill-gotten  gain ; 
And  pray  to  gods  that  will  not  hear, 
While  the  debating  winds  and  billows  bear 

His  wealth  into  the  main. 
For  me,  secure  from  Fortune's  blows, 
Secure  of  what  I  cannot  lose, 
In  my  small  pinnace  I  can  sail, 

Contemning  all  the  blustering  roar : 


Personal  Poems.  155 


And,  running  with  a  merry  gale, 
With  friendly  stars  my  safety  seek, 
Within  some  little  winding  creek, 
And  see  the  storm  ashore. 

HORACE  (Latin),  ODE  XXIX.,  BOOK  III. 

Translation  of  JOHN  DRYDEN. 


OJV  AJVTOJVIU'S—ji   GOO®  MAJY. 

IN  strength  elate,  in  fame  and  conscience  clear, 

Antonius  numbers  now  his  eightieth  year ; 

Joys  o'er  the  past,  and  sees  without  a  sigh 

The  inevitable  step  of  fate  draw  nigh. 

No  memory  of  dark  days — but  pleasant  all, — 

Not  one  but  willingly  he  would  recall. 

Thus  is  life's  stage  prolonged  •  thus  he,  blest  man  ! 

Lives  twice,  who  can  enjoy  life's  former  span. 

MAKTIAL  (Latin). 

Translation  of  W.  PETER. 


THE  KIT&S  AT  HIS  S&OTHE'K'S  G'KAYIH. 

O'ER  many  a  distant  land,  o'er  many  a  wave, 

Brother !  I  come  a  pilgrim  to  thy  grave, 

To  pay  the  rites  which  pious  love  ordains 

And,  though  in  vain,  invoke  thy  mute  remains. 

For  thou  art  gone  !     Yes,  thee  I  must  resign, 

My  more  than  brother — ah  !  no  longer  mine. 

Meanwhile  these  rites  of  ancestry  be  paid, 

A  sacred  debt,  to  thy  lamented  shade : 

Take  them — these  tears  their  heartfelt  homage  tell — 

And  now — forever  bless  thee, — and  farewell ! 

CATULLUS  (Latin). 

Translation  of  FRANCIS  HODGSON. 


156  Personal  Poems. 


TO  HIMSELF. 

ON   THE   APPROACH   OP   SPRING. 

Now  Spring  renews  her  gentle  charms, 
And,  lull'd  in  Zephyr's  balmy  arms, 

Soft  grows  the  angry  sky ; 
Haste  then,  and,  leaving  Phrygia's  plains, 
Leaving  Nicaea's  rich  domains, 

To  Asia's  cities  fly. 

My  soul,  all-trembling,  pants  to  stray, 
My  bounding  feet  the  call  obey, 

Friends  of  my  youth,  farewell ! 
Lov'd  friends,  with  whom  I  left  my  home, 
Now  doom'd  through  various  ways  to  roam, 

In  different  lands  to  dwell, 

CATULLUS  (Latin). 

Translation  of  W.  PETER. 


TO  MELTOMEJVE. 

HE  on  whose  natal  hour  the  Queen 
Of  verse  hath  smiled,  shall  never  grace 

The  Isthmian  gauntlet,  or  be  seen 
First  in  the  famed  Olympian  race. 

He  shall  not,  after  toils  of  war, 

And  taming  haughty  monarchs'  pride, 

With  laurell'd  brows,  conspicuous  far, 
To  Jove's  Tarpeian  Temple  ride. 

But  him  the  streams  which  warbling  flow 
Rich  Tibur's  fertile  vales  along, 

And  shady  groves,  his  haunts,  shall  know 
The  master  of  the  ^Eolian  song. 


Personal  Poems.  157 


The  sons  of  Eome,  majestic  Eome  ! 

Have  placed  me  in  the  poets'  choir, 
And  envy  now,  or  dead  or  dumb, 

Forbears  to  blame  what  they  admire. 

Goddess  of  the  sweet-sounding  lute  ! 

Which  thy  harmonious  touch  obeys ; 
Who  mak'st  the  finny  race,  though  mute, 

The  cygnet's  dying  accent  raise ; 

Thy  gift  it  is,  that  all,  with  ease, 

Me  prince  of  Roman  lyrists  own ; 
That  while  I  live,  my  numbers  please, 

If  pleasing,  is  thy  gift  alone. 

HORACE  (Latin),  ODE  III.,  BOOK  IV. 

Translation  of  BISHOP  ATTERBUEY. 


TO  MELTOMJSJYE. 

I'VE  reared  a  monument,  my  own, 

More  durable  than  brass, 
Yea,  kingly  pyramids  of  stone 

In  height  it  doth  surpass. 

Rain  shall  not  sap,  nor  driving  blast 

Disturb  its  settled  base, 
Nor  countless  ages  rolling  past 

Its  symmetry  deface. 

I  shall  not  wholly  die.     Some  part, 

ISTor  that  a  little,  shall 
Escape  the  dark  destroyer's  dart, 

And  his  grim  festival. 


158  Personal  Poems. 


For  long  as  with  his  Vestals  mute 

Home's  Pontifex  shall  climb 
The  Capitol,  my  fame  shall  shoot 

Fresh  buds  from  future  time. 

Where  brawls  loud  Aufidus,  and  came 

Parch'd  Daunus  erst,  a  horde 
Of  rustic  boors  to  sway  my  name 

Shall  be  a  household  word ; 

As  one  who  rose  from  mean  estate, 

The  first  with  poet  fire 
^Eolic  song  to  modulate 

To  the  Italian  lyre. 

Then  grant,  Melpomene,  thy  son 

Thy  guerdon  proud  to  wear, 
And  Delphic  laurels  duly  won 

Bind  thou  upon  my  hair ! 

HORACE  (Latin),  ODE  XXX.,  BOOK  HI. 

Translation  of  THEODORE  MARTIN. 

TO   YI'KGIL. 

WHY  should  we  stem  the  tears  that  needs  must  flow, 
Why  blush  that  they  should  freely  flow  and  long, 

To  think  of  that  dear  head  in  death  laid  low  1 
Do  thou  inspire  my  melancholy  song, 

Melpomene,  in  whom  the  Muses'  sire 

Joined  with  a  liquid  voice  the  mastery  of  the  lyre  ! 

And  hath  the  sleep,  that  knows  no  waking  morn, 
Closed  o'er  Quinctilius,  our  Quinctilius  dear  ? 

Where  shall  be  found  the  man  of  woman  born, 
That  in  desert  might  be  esteemed  his  peer, — 

So  simply  meek,  and  yet  so  sternly  just, 

Of  faith  so  pure,  and  all  so  absolute  of  trust  ? 


Personal  Poems.  159 


He  sank  into  his  rest,  bewept  of  many, 
And  but  the  good  and  noble  wept  for  him, 

But  dearer  cause  thou,  Virgil,  hadst  than  any, 

With  friendship's  tears  thy  friendless  eyes  to  dim ! 

Alas  !  alas  !     Not  to  such  woful  end 

Didst  thou  unto  the  gods  thy  prayers  unceasing  send ! 

What  though  thou  modulate  the  tuneful  shell 
With  defter  skill  than  Orpheus  of  old  Thrace, 

When  deftliest  he  played,  and  with  its  spell 
Moved  all  the  listening  forest  from  its  place, 

Yet  never,  never  can  thy  art  avail 

To  bring  life's  glowing  tide  back  to  the  phantom  pale, 

Whom  with  his  black  inexorable  wand 

Hermes,  austere  and  pitiless  as  fate, 
Hath  forced  to  join  the  dark  and  spectral  band 

In  their  sad  journey  to  the  Stygian  gate. 
'Tis  hard,  great  heavens,  how  hard  !     But  to  endure 
Alleviates  the  pang  we  may  nor  crush  nor  cure  ! 

HORACE  (Latin),  ODE  XXIV.,  BOOK  I. 

Translation  of  THEODORE  MAKTIN. 


TO  ZOZZIVS. 

NEVER  deem,  they  must  perish,  the  verses,  which  I, 
Who  was  born  Avhere  the  waters  of  Aufidus  roar, 

To  the  chords  of  the  lyre  with  a  cunning  ally 
Unknown  to  the  bards  of  my  country  before  ! 

Though  Maeonian  Homer,  unrivall'd  may  reign, 
Yet  are  not  the  Muses  Pindaric  unknown, 

The  threats  of  Alcaeus,  the  Ceian's  sad  strain, 
Nor  stately  Stesichorus'  lordlier  tone. 


160  Personal  Poems. 


Unforgot  is  the  sportive  Anacreon's  lay, 

Still,  still  sighs  the  passion,  unquench'd  is  the  fire, 

Which  the  Lesbian  maiden  in  days  far  away 

From  her  love-laden  bosom  breathed  into  the  lyre. 

Not  alone  has  Lacsenian  Helena's  gaze 

Been  fix'd  by  the  gloss  of  a  paramour's  hair, 

By  vestments  with  gold  and  with  jewels  ablaze, 
By  regal  array,  and  a  retinue  rare ; 

NOT  did  Teucer  first  wield  the  Cydonian  bow, 

Nor  was  Troy  by  a  foe  but  once  harass'd  and  wrung : 

Nor  Idomeneus  only,  or  Sthenelus  show 

Such  prowess  in  war  as  deserved  to  be  sung ; 

NOT  yet  was  redoubtable  Hector,  nor  brave 

Deiphobus  first  in  the  hard-stricken  field 
By  the  dint  of  the  strokes,  which  they  took  and  they  gave, 

Their  babes  and  the  wives  of  their  bosoms  to  shield. 

Many,  many  have  lived,  who  were  valiant  in  fight, 
Before  Agamemnon ;  but  all  have  gone  down, 

Unwept  and  unknown,  in  the  darkness  of  night, 
For  lack  of  a  poet  to  hymn  their  renown. 

Hidden  worth  differs  little  from  sepulchred  ease, 
But,  Lollius,  thy  fame  in  my  pages  shall  shine ; 

I  will  not  let  pale-eyed  Forgetfulness  seize 
These  manifold  noble  achievements  of  thine. 

Thou,  my  friend,  hast  a  soul  by  whose  keen-sighted  range 

Events  afar  off  in  their  issues  are  seen, 
A  soul,  which  maintains  itself  still  through  each  change 

Of  good  or  ill  fortune  erect  and  serene. 


Personal  Poems.  161 


Of  rapine  and  fraud  the  avenger  austere, 

To  wealth  and  its  all-snaring  blandishments  proof, 

The  Consul  art  thou  not  of  one  single  year, 
But  as  oft  as  a  Judge,  from  all  baseness  aloof, 

Thou  hast  made  the  expedient  give  place  to  the  right, 
And  flung  back  the  bribes  of  the  guilty  with  scorn, 

And  on  through  crowds  warring  against  thee  with  might 
Thy  far-flashing  arms  hast  triumphantly  borne. 

Not  him  who  of  much  that  men  prize  is  possess'd 

May'st  thou  fitly  call  "  blest ; "  he  may  claim  to  enjoy 

More  fitly,  more  truly,  the  title  of  "  blest," 

Who  wisely  the  gifts  of  the  gods  can  employ ; — 

Who  want,  and  its  hardships,  and  slights  can  withstand, 
And  shrinks  from  disgrace  as  more  bitter  than  death ; 

Not  he  for  the  friends  whom  he  loves,  or  the  land 
Of  his  fathers  will  dread  to  surrender  his  breath. 

HORACE  (Latin),  ODE  IX.,  BOOK  IV. 

Translation  of  TUEODOKE  MARTIN. 


OJV  THE  TOMS  Of1  MAJYO. 

FRIENDS  of  my  heart,  who  share  my  sighs  ! 
Go  seek  the  turf  where  Mano  lies, 
And  woo  the  dewy  clouds  of  spring 
To  sweep  it  with  prolific  wing. 

Within  that  cell,  beneath  that  heap, 
Friendship  and  Truth  and  Honor  sleep, 
Beneficence,  that  us'd  to  clasp 
The  world  within  her  ample  grasp, 

14 


162  Personal  Poems. 


There  rests  entomb'd — of  thought  bereft — 
For,  were  one  conscious  atom  left 
'Twould  yearn  new  blessings  to  display, 
Burst  from  the  grave,  and  seek  the  day. 

But  tho'  in  dust  thy  relics  lie, 
Thy  virtues,  Mano,  ne'er  shall  die ; 
Tho'  Nile's  full  stream  be  seen  no  more, 
That  spreads  his  waves  from  shore  to  shore, 
Still  in  the  verdure  of  the  plain 
His  vivifying  smiles  remain. 

HASSAN  ALASADV  (Arabian). 

Tmnslalion  of  J.  D.  CABLYLE. 


TO   TITTO'RIA   COLOAWA. 

WHEN  of  some  form  and  face,  Art,  pure,  divine, 
Has  caught  th'  expressive  mien,  the  features'  play, 
A  model  next  it  forms  of  humble  clay, 
Then  th'  idea  and  the  first  birth  combine ; 
But  next  in  marble  fair  those  features  shine, 
If  truthful  genius  prompt  the  artist's  care ; 
And  thus  renascent,  beautiful,  and  fair, 
Its  glories  neither  Place  nor  Time  confine. 
Lady,  both  great  and  good,  in  me  you  view 
That  first  imperfect  model ;  thanks  to  thee, 
Remodelled,  bom  anew,  'tis  mine  to  be. 
If  my  defects  thy  pious  aid  supply 
And  the  redundant  smooth,  what  shall  excuse 
My  vain  dark  mind  should  it  such  aid  refuse  ? 

MICHAEL  ANOELO  (Italian). 

Translation  of  JOHN  S.  HARFOED. 


Personal  Poems.  163 


OJV 

DOWN  to  the  dark  abyss  he  went,  and  trod 

The  one  and  the  other  hell ;  this  purpose  wrought, 

Instinct  with  thoughts  sublime  he  soared  to  God ; 

And  the  great  truths  thence  gained  to  mortals  taught ; 

Star  of  high  valor  !  from  his  depth  of  rays, 

On  our  dark  minds  eternal  secrets  blaze ; 

His  sole  reward  that  persecuting  rod 

With  which  her  heroes  a  base  world  requites ; 

Dante's  great  mind  left  far  behind  the  lights 

Of  that  ungrateful  people  whose  applause 

Is  ne'er  denied  but  to  the  wise  and  great ; 

"Would  I  were  such  as  he,  mine  the  same  fate, 

Happiest  of  all  that  can  on  mortals  wait, 

Exile  severe,  endured  in  Virtue's  cause. 

MICHAEL  ASGELO  (Italian).    Translation  of  JOHN  S.  HARFORD. 

SOJYJV&T  XXI. 

LADY,  how  can  it  be  1  and  yet  each  day 

Experience  teaches,  that  a  form  or  face 

Chisell'd  in  stone,  or  marble's  purer  grace, 

Lives  when  the  framer's  hand  is  lifeless  clay : 

The  cause  infirm  to  th'  effect  gives  way, 

And  art  on  nature  smiles  with  conquering  pride : 

I  know  it  well,  to  Sculpture  fair  allied, 

And  Time  thus  plays  a  faithless  part  with  me  : 

Haply  my  practised  art  to  us  may  prove 

Th'  enduring  record  of  each  face  and  mind, 

In  stone,  or  colors  wrought,  with  power  refined, 

So  that  to  distant  times  it  may  appear, 

How  bright  thy  beauty  was,  how  deep  my  love, 

And  that  true  love  ne'er  moved  in  nobler  sphere. 

MICUAEL  ANGELO  (Italian).     Translation  of  JOHN  S.  HARFORD. 


164  Personal  Poems. 


SOJVJV&T. 

ON   THE   TOMB   OP   PETRARCA. 

"  YE  consecrated  marbles,  proud  and  dear, 
Blest,  that  the  noblest  Tuscan  ye  infold, 
And  in  your  walls  his  holy  ashes  hold, 
Who,  dying,  left  none  greater, — none  his  peer : 
Since  I,  with  pious  hand,  with  soul  sincere, 
Can  send  on  high  no  costly  perfumed  fold 
Of  frankincense,  and  o'er  the  sacred  mould 
Where  Petrarch  lies  no  gorgeous  altars  rear ; 
O,  scorn  it  not,  if  humbly  I  impart 
My  grateful  offering  to  these  lovely  shades, 
Here  bending  low  in  singleness  of  mind ! " 
Lilies  and  violets  sprinkling  to  the  wind, 
Thus  Damon  prays,  while  the  bright  hills  and  glades 
Murmur,  "  The  gift  is  small,  but  rich  the  heart." 

BENEDETTO  VARCHI  (Italian), 
Translation  in  U.  S.  LITERARY  GAZETTE. 


SOJVWET. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OP  PORZIA  CAPECE. 

MY  breast,  my  mind,  my  bursting  heart  shall  be 
Thy  sepulchre, — and  not  this  marble  tomb, 
Which  I  prepare  for  thee  in  grief  and  gloom  : 
No  meaner  grave,  my  wife,  is  fitting  thee. 
O,  ever  cherished  be  thy  memory, — 
And  may  thine  image  dear  my  path  illume, 
And  leave  my  heart  for  other  hopes  no  room, 
While  sad  I  sail  o'er  sorrow's  troubled  sea  ! 
Sweet,  gentle  soul,  where  thou  wert  used  to  reign, 
My  spirit's  queen,  when  wrapt  in  mortal  clay, 


Personal  Poems.  165 


There,  when  immortal,  shalt  thou  rule  again. 
Let  death,  then,  tear  my  love  from  earth  away ; 
Urned  in  my  bosom,  she  will  still  remain, 
Alive  or  dead,  untarnished  by  decay. 

BERNARDINO  ROTA  (Italian). 

Translation  in  U.  S.  LITERARY  GAZETTE. 


DANTE  am  I, — Minerva's  son,  who  knew 

With  skill  and  genius  (though  in  style  obscure) 

And  elegance  maternal  to  mature 

My  toil,  a  miracle  to  mortal  view. 

Through  realms  tartarean  and  celestial  flew 

My  lofty  fancy,  swift-winged  and  secure ; 

And  ever  shall  my  noble  work  endure, 

Fit  to  be  read  of  men,  and  angels  too. 

Florence  my  earthly  mother's  glorious  name ; 

Stepdame  to  me, — whom  from  her  side  she  thrust, 

Her  duteous  son  :  bear  slanderous  tongues  the  blame  ; 

Ravenna  housed  my  exile,  holds  my  dust ; 

My  spirit  is  with  Him  from  whom  it  came, — 

A  Parent  envy  cannot  make  unjust. 

GIOVANNI  BOCCACCIO  (Italian). 

Translation  of  C.  GRAY. 


JVO  CATTIYE  ^JVIGIIT  WHOM  CHAIJVS 
COJYFIJYE. 

No  captive  knight,  whom  chains  confine 
Can  tell  his  fate,  and  not  repine  ; 
Yet  with  a  song  he  cheers  the  gloom 
That  hangs  around  his  living  tomb. 
Shame  to  his  friends  ! — the  king  remains 
Two  years  unransomed  and  in  chains. 


166  Personal  Poems. 


Now  let  them  know,  my  brave  barons, 
English,  Normans,  and  Gascons, 
Not  a  liege-man  so  poor  have  I, 
That  I  would  not  his  freedom  buy. 
I  will  not  reproach  their  noble  line, 
But  chains  and  a  dungeon  still  are  mine. 

The  dead, — nor  friends  nor  kin  have  they  ! 
Nor  friends  nor  kin  my  ransom  pay  ! 
My  wrongs  afflict  me, — yet  far  more 
For  faithless  friends  my  heart  is  sore. 
0,  what  a  blot  upon  their  name, 
If  I  should  perish  thus  in  shame ! 

Nor  is  it  strange  I  suffer  pain, 

When  sacred  oaths  are  thus  made  vain, 

And  when  the  king  with  bloody  hands 

Spreads  war  and  pillage  through  my  lands. 

One  only  solace  now  remains, — 

I  soon  shall  burst  these  servile  chains. 

Ye  Troubadours,  and  friends  of  mine, 
.   Brave  Chail,  and  noble  Pensauvine, 
Go,  tell  my  rivals,  in  your  song, 
This  heart  hath  never  done  them  wrong. 
He  infamy — not  glory — gains, 
Who  strikes  a  monarch  in  his  chains. 

RICHAKD  CCEUR  BE  LION  (French). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 

OJV  TJETJ?  2)J?d.T£r  Of  JETER  FATtf&'R. 

A  MOURNING  dove,  whose  mate  is  dead, — 
A  lamb,  whose  shepherd  is  no  more, — 

Even  such  am  I,  since  he  is  fled 
Whose  loss  I  cease  not  to  deplore : 


Personal  Poems.  167 


Alas  !  since  to  the  grave  they  bore 
My  sire,  for  whom  these  tears  are  shed, 
What  is  there  left  for  me  to  love, — 

A  mourning  dove  ? 

O,  that  his  grave  for  me  had  room, 

Where  I  at  length  might  calmly  rest ! 
For  all  to  me  is  saddest  gloom, 

All  scenes  to  me  appear  unblest ; 
And  all  my  hope  is  in  his  tomb, 

To  lay  my  hand  on  his  cold  breast 
Who  left  his  child  naught  else  to  love  ! 

A  mourning  dove ! 

CHRISTINE  DE  PISAN  (French). 

Translation  of  LOUISA  STUART  COSTELLO. 


OJV  THE  DEATH  OF  HE'R 
FftAJYCIS   THE 


'Tis  done  !  a  father,  mother,  gone, 
A  sister,  brother,  torn  away, 

My  hope  is  now  in  God  alone, 

Whom  Heaven  and  earth  alike  obey. 

Above,  beneath,  to  him  is  known,  — 

The  world's  wide  compass  is  his  own. 

I  love,  —  but  in  the  world  no  more, 
Nor  in  gay  hall,  or  festal  bower  ; 

Not  the  fair  forms  I  prized  before,  — 
But  Him,  all  beauty,  wisdom,  power, 

My  Saviour,  who  has  cast  a  chain 

On  sin  and  ill,  and  woe  and  pain  ! 


168  Personal  Poems. 


I  from  my  memory  have  effaced 

All  former  joys,  all  kindred,  friends ; 

All  honors  that  my  station  graced 
I  hold  but  snares  that  fortune  sends : 

Hence  !  joys  by  Christ  at  distance  cast, 

That  we  may  be  his  own  at  last ! 

MAEQUEEITE  DE  VALOIS  (French). 

Translation  of  LOUISA  STUABT  COSTELLO. 


OJ\T  siGJV&S 

HERE  lies  entombed  the  fairest  of  the  fair ; 

To  her  rare  beauty  greater  praise  be  given 
Than  holy  maids  in  cloistered  cells  may  share, 

Or  hermits  that  in  deserts  live  for  Heaven  ! 
For  by  her  charms  recovered  France  arose, 
Shook  off  her  chains,  and  triumphed  o'er  her  foes. 

FRANCIS  I.  (French).    Translation  of  LOUISA  STUABT  COSTELLO. 


TO  HIS 

O  GOLDEN  lyre,  whom  all  the  Muses  claim, 
And  Phoebus  crowns  with  uncontested  fame, 
My  solace  in  all  woes  that  Fate  has  sent ! 
At  thy  soft  voice  all  nature  smiles  content, 
The  dance  springs  gayly  at  thy  jocund  call, 
And  with  thy  music  echo  bower  and  hall. 

When  thou  art  heard,  the  lightnings  cease  to  play, 

And  Jove's  dread  thunder  faintly  dies  away ; 

Low  on  the  triple-pointed  bolt  reclined, 

His  eagle  droops  his  wing,  and  sleeps  resigned, 

As.  at  thy  power,  his  all-pervading  eye 

Yields  gently  to  the  spell  of  minstrelsy. 


Personal  Poems.  169 


To  him  may  ne'er  Elysian  joys  belong, 
Who  prizes  not,  melodious  lyre,  thy  song ! 
Pride  of  my  youth,  I  first  in  France  made  known 
All  the  wild  wonders  of  thy  godlike  tone ; 
I  tuned  thee  first, — for  harsh  thy  chords  I  found, 
And  all  thy  sweetness  in  oblivion  bound : 
But  scarce  my  eager  fingers  touch  thy  strings, 
When  each  rich  strain  to  deathless  being  springs. 

Time's  withering  grasp  was  cold  upon  thee  then, 
And  my  heart  bled  to  see  thee  scorned  of  men ; 
Who  once  at  monarchs'  feasts,  so  gayly  dight, 
Filled  all  their  courts  with  glory  and  delight. 

To  give  thee  back  thy  former  magic  tone, 
The  force,  the  grace,  the  beauty  all  thine  own, 
Through  Thebes  I  sought,  Apulia's  realm  explored, 
And  hung  their  spoils  upon  each  drooping  chord. 

Then  forth,  through  lovely  France,  we  took  our  way, 

And  Loire  resounded  many  an  early  lay ; 

I  sang  the  mighty  deeds  of  princes  high, 

And  poured  the  exulting  song  of  victory. 

He,  who  would  rouse  thy  eloquence  divine, 

In  camps  or  tourneys  may  not  hope  to  shine, 

Nor  on  the  seas  behold  his  prosperous  sail, 

Nor  in  the  fields  of  warlike  strife  prevail 

But  thou,  my  forest,  and  each  pleasant  wood 
Which  shades  my  own  Yen  dime's  majestic  flood, 
Where  Pan  and  all  the  laughing  nymphs  repose ; 
Ye  sacred  choir,  whom  Braye's  fair  walls  inclose, 
Ye  shall  bestow  upon  your  bard  a  name 
That  through  the  universe  shall  spread  his  fame, 

15 


170  Personal  Poems. 


His  notes  shall  grace,  and  love,  and  joy  inspire, 
And  all  be  subject  to  his  sounding  lyre  ! 
Even  now,  my  lute,  the  world  has  heard  thy  praise, 
Even  now  the  sons  of  France  applaud  my  lays  : 
Me,  as  their  bard,  above  the  rest  they  choose. 
To  you  be  thanks,  0  each  propitious  Muse, 
That,  taught  by  you,  iny  voice  can  fitly  sing, 
To  celebrate  my  country  and  my  king ! 

O,  if  I  please,  0,  if  my  songs  awake 

Some  gentle  memories  for  Eonsard's  sake, 

If  I  the  harper  of  fair  France  may  be, 

If  men  shall  point  and  say,  "  Lo  !  that  is  he !" 

If  mine  may  prove  a  destiny  so  proud 

That  France  herself  proclaims  my  praise  aloud, 

If  on  my  head  I  place  a  starry  crown, 

To  thee,  to  thee,  my  lute,  be  the  renown ! 

PIERRE  DE  RONSAKD  (French). 

Translation  of  LOUISA  STUART  COSTELLO 


STIXATB  OJV  fKAJYCOISE  3)E  FOIX. 

> 

BENEATH  this  tomb  De  Foix's  fair  Frances  lies, 

On  whose  rare  worth  each  tongue  delights  to  dwell ; 
And  none,  while  fame  her  virtue  deities, 

Can  with  harsh  voice  the  meed  of  praise  repel. 
In  beauty  peerless,  in  attractive  grace, 

Of  mind  enlightened,  and  of  wit  refined ; 
With  honor,  more  than  this  weak  tongue  can  trace, 

The  Eternal  Father  stored  her  spotless  mind. 
Alas  !  the  sum  of  human  gifts  how  small ! 
Here  nothing  lies,  that  once  commanded  all ! 

FBANCIS  I.  (French). 

Translation  of  LOUISA  STUAKT  COSTELLO. 


Personal  Poems.  171 


TO  MAftT  STUART. 

ALL  beauty,  granted  as  a  boon  to  earth, 
That  is,  has  been,  or  ever  can  have  birth, 
Compared  to  hers,  is  void,  and  Nature's  care 
Ne'er  formed  a  creature  so  divinely  fair. 

In  spring  amidst  the  lilies  she  was  born, 

And  purer  tints  her  peerless  face  adorn ; 

And  though  Adonis'  blood  the  rose  may  paint, 

Beside  her  bloom  the  rose's  hues  are  faint  : 

With  all  his  richest  store  Love  decked  her  eyes  ; 

The  Graces  each,  those  daughters  of  the  skies, 

Strove  which  should  make  her  to  the  world  most  dear, 

And,  to  attend  her,  left  their  native  sphere. 

The  day  that  was  to  bear  her  far  away, — 

Why  was  I  mortal  to  behold  that  day  ? 

0,  had  I  senseless  grown,  nor  heard,  nor  seen  ! 

Or  that  my  eyes  a  ceaseless  fount  had  been, 

That  I  might  weep,  as  weep  amidst  their  bowers 

The  nymphs,  when  winter  winds  have  cropped  their  flowers, 

Or  when  rude  torrents  the  clear  streams  deform, 

Or  when  the  trees  are  riven  by  the  storm ! 

Or  rather,  would  that  I  some  bird  had  been, 

Still  to  be  near  her  in  each  changing  scene, 

Still  on  the  highest  mast  to  watch  all  day, 

And  like  a  star  to  mark  her  vessel's  way : 

The  dangerous  billows  past,  on  shore,  on  sea, 

Near  that  dear  face  it  still  were  mine  to  be  ! 

0  France !  where  are  thy  ancient  champions  gone, — 
Roland,  Einaldo  ? — is  there  living  none 


172  Personal  Poems. 


Her  steps  to  follow  and  her  safety  guard, 
And  deem  her  lovely  looks  their  best  reward, — 
Which  might  subdue  the  pride  of  mighty  Jove 
To  leave  his  heaven,  and  languish  for  her  love  ? 
Ko  fault  is  hers,  but  in  her  royal  state, — 
For  simple  Love  dreads  to  approach  the  great ; 
He  flies  from  regal  pomp,  that  treacherous  snare, 
Where  truth  unmarked  may  wither  in  despair. 

Wherever  destiny  her  path  may  lead, 
Fresh-springing  flowers  will  bloom  beneath  her  tread, 
All  nature  will  rejoice,  the  waves  be  bright, 
The  tempest  check  its  fury  at  her  sight, 
The  sea  be  calm :  her  beauty  to  behold, 
The  sun  shall  crown  her  with  his  rays  of  gold, — 
Unless  he  fears,  should  he  approach  her  throne, 
Her  majesty  should  quite  eclipse  his  own. 

PIERRE  DE  RONSARD  (French). 

Translation  of  LOUISA  STDABT  COSTELLO. 


OJV  ft  ABEL  ATS. 

PLUTO,  bid  Kabelais  welcome  to  thy  shore, 
That  thou,  who  art  the  king  of  woe  and  pain, 

Whose  subjects  never  learned  to  laugh  before, 
May  boast  a  laugher  in  thy  grim  domain. 

JEAN  ANTOINE  DE  BAIF  (French). 

Translation  of  LOUISA  STUART  COSTELLO. 


ZO77IS 

OUR  aged  king,  whose  name  we  breathe  in  dread, 
Louis,  the  tenant  of  yon  dreary  pile, 

Designs,  in  this  fair  prime  of  flowers,  'tis  said, 
To  view  our  sports,  and  try  if  he  can  smile. 


Personal  Poems.  173 


Welcome  !  sport  that  sweetens  labor  ! 

Village  maidens,  village  boys, 
Neighbor  hand  in  hand  with  neighbor, 
Dance  we,  singing  to  the  tabour, 

And  the  sackbut's  merry  noise  ! 

While  laughter,  love,  and  song  are  here  abroad, 
His  jealous  fears  imprison  Louis  there ; 

He  dreads  his  peers,  his  people, — ay,  his  God ; 
But  more  than  all,  the  mention  of  his  heir. 
Welcome  !  sport  that  sweetens  labor  !  etc. 

Look  there  !  a  thousand  lances  gleam  afar, 
In  the  warm  sunlight  of  this  gentle  spring ! 

And,  'midst  the  clang  of  bolts,  that  grate  and  jar, 
Heard  ye  the  warder's  challenge  sharply  ring  ? 
Welcome  !  sport  that  sweetens  labor !  etc. 

He  comes  !  he  comes  !    Alas  !  this  mighty  king 
With  envy  well  the  hovel's  peace  may  view ; 

See  where  he  stands,  a  pale  and  spectral  thing, 
And  glares  askance  the  serried  halberds  through  ! 
Welcome  !  sport  that  sweetens  labor !  etc. 

Beside  our  cottage  hearths,  how  bright  and  grand 
Were  all  our  visions  of  a  monarch's  air ! 

What !  is  his  sceptre  but  that  trembling  hand  ? 
Is  that  his  crown, — a  forehead  seamed  by  care  ? 
Welcome  !  sport  that  sweetens  labor !  etc. 

In  vain  we  sing ;  at  yonder  distant  chime, 

Shivering,  he  starts  ! — 'twas  but  the  village  bell ! 

But  evermore  the  sound  that  notes  the  time 
Strikes  to  his  ear  an  omen  of  his  knell ! 
Welcome  !  sport  that  sweetens  labor !  etc. 


174  Personal  Poems. 


Alas  !  our  joys  some  dark  distrust  inspire  ! 

He  flies,  attended  by  his  chosen  slave ; 
Beware  his  hate ;  and  say,  "  Our  gracious  sire 

A  loving  smile  to  greet  his  children  gave." 
Welcome  !  sport  that  sweetens  labor !  etc. 

PIEKRE  JEAN  DE  BERANOER  (French). 

Translation  of  FRANCIS  MAHONY. 


FALL   Of1  T&E 

AUTUMN  had  stripped  the  grove,  and  strewed 

The  vale  with  leafy  carpet  o'er, 
Shorn  of  its  mystery  the  wood 

And  Philomel  bade  sing  no  more ; 
Yet  one  still  hither  comes  to  feed 

His  gaze  on  childhood's  merry  path ; 
For  him,  sick  youth  !  poor  invalid  ! 

Lonely  attraction  still  it  hath. 
"  I  come  to  bid  you  farewell  brief, 

Here,  0  my  infancy's  wild  haunt ! 
For  death  gives,  in  each  falling  leaf, 

Sad  summons  to  your  visitant. 
'Twas  a  stern  oracle  that  told 

My  dark  decree, — '  The  woodland  bloom 
Once  more  'ti-s  given  thee  to  behold, 

Then  comes  the  inexorable  tomb  /' 

"  The  eternal  cypress,  balancing 

Its  tall  form,  like  some  funeral  thing, 

In  silence  o'er  my  head, 
Tells  me  my  youth  shall  wither  fast, 
Ere  the  grass  fades, — yea,  ere  the  last 

Stalk  from  the  vine  is  shed. 


Personal  Poems.  175 


"  I  die  !     Yes,  with  his  icy  breath, 

Fixed  Fate  has  frozen  up  my  blood ; 
And  by  the  chilly  blast  of  Death 

Nipped  is  my  life's  spring  in  the  bud. 
Fall,  fall,  0  transitory  leaf, 

And  cover  well  this  path  of  sorrow ; 
Hide  from  my  mother's  searching  grief 

The  spot  where  I'll  be  laid  to-morrow ! 

"  But  should  my  loved  one's  fairy  tread 
Seek  the  sad  dwelling  of  the  dead, 

Silent,  alone,  at  eve, — 
O,  then  with  rustling  murmur  meet 
The  echo  of  her  coming  feet, 

And  sign  of  welcome  give  ! " 

Such  was  the  sick  youth's  last  sad  thought ; 

Then  slowly  from  the  grove  he  moved : 
Next  moon  that  way  a  corpse  was  brought, 

And  buried  in  the  bower  he  loved. 
But  at  his  grave  no  form  appeared, 

No  fairy  mourner :  through  the  wood 
The  shepherd's  tread  alone  was  heard, 

In  the  sepulchral  solitude. 

CHARLES  HUBERT  MILLEVOYE  (French). 

Translation  of  FRANCIS  MAHONT. 


TJEfJF 

TELL  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is 
Lady  Flora  the  lovely  Roman  ? 

Where's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thais, 
Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman  ? 


176  Personal  Poems. 


Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man, 
Only  heard  on  river  and  mere, — 

She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human  ?  . 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

Where's  Heloise,  the  learned  nun, 
For  whose  sake  Abeillard,  I  ween, 

Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on  ? 
(From  Love  he  won  such  dule  and  teen !) 
And  where,  I  pray  you,  is  the  Queen 

Who  willed  that  Buridan  should  steer 

Sewed  in  a  sack's  mouth  down  the  Seine  ?  . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

White  Queen  Blanche,  like  a  queen  of  lilies, 
With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden, 

Bertha  Broadfoot,  Beatrice,  Alice, 
And  Ermengarde  the  lady  of  Maine, 
And  that  good  Joan  whom  Englishmen 

At  Eouen  doomed  and  burned  her  there, — 
Mother  of  God,  where  are  they  then  ?  .  .  . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 


Nay,  never  ask  this  week,  fair  lord, 
Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year, 

Except  with  this  for  an  overword, — 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

FRAN§OIS  VILLON  (French). 

Translation  of  D.  G.  ROSSETTI. 


Personal  Poems.  177 


COLUM&ZTS. 

STEER  on,  bold  sailor — Wit  may  mock  thy  soul  that  sees 
the  land, 

And  hopeless  at  the  helm  may  droop  the  weak  and  weary 
hand; 

Yet  ever,  ever  to  the  West,  for  there  the  coast  must  lie, 

A*nd  dim  it  dawns  and  glimmering  dawns  before  thy  rea- 
son's eye ; 

Yea,  trust  the  guiding  God,  and  go  along  the  floating 
grave, 

Though  hid  till  now,  yet  now  behold  the  New  World  o'er 
the  wave ! 

With  Genius  Nature  ever  stands  in  solemn  union  still, 

And  ever  what  the  one  foretells  the  other  shall  fulfill. 

FBIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER  (German). 

Translation  of  E.  BULWER  LYTTON 


F"RAZ7EJ\TLOS. 

IN  Mentz  'tis  hushed  and  lonely,  the  streets  are  waste  and 

drear, 
And  none  but  forms  of  sorrow,  clad  in  mourning  garbs, 

appear ; 
And  only  from  the  steeple  sounds  the  death-bell's  sullen 

boom ; 
One  street  alone  is  crowded,  and  it  leads  but  to  the  tomb. 

And  as  the  echo  from  the  tower  grows  faint  and  dies  away, 
Unto  the  minster  comes  a  still  and  sorrowful  array, — 
The  old  man  and  the  young,  the  child,  and  many  a  maiden 

fair; 
And  every  eye  is  dim  with  tears,  in  every  heart  is  care. 


178  Personal  Poems. 


Six  virgins  in  the  centre  bear  a  coffin  and  a  bier, 

And  to  the  rich  high-aitar  steps  with  deadened  chant  draw 

near, 
Where  all  around  for  saintly  forms  are  dark  escutcheons 

found, 
With  a  cross  of  simple  white  displayed  upon  a  raven 

ground. 

And,  placed  that  raven  pall  above,  a  laurel-garland  green, 
The  minstrel's  verdant  coronet,  his  meed  of  song,  is  seen ; 
His  golden  harp,  beside  it  laid,  a  feeble  murmur  flings, 
As  the  evening  wind  sweeps  sadly  through  its  now  for- 
saken strings. 

Who  rests  within  his  coffin  there  ?    For  whom  this  general 

wail? 
Is  some  beloved  monarch  gone,  that  old  and  young  look 

pale? 
A  king,  in  truth, — a  king  of  song !  and  FRAUENLOB  his 

name; 
And  thus  in  death  his  fatherland  must  celebrate  his  fame. 

Unto  the  fairest  flowers  of  Heaven  that  bloom  this  earth 

along, 
To  women's  worth,  did  he  on  earth  devote  his  deathless 

song; 
And  though  the  minstrel  has  grown  old,  and  faded  be  his 

frame, 
They  yet  requite  what  he  in  life  hath  done  for  love  and 

them. 

ANTON  ALEXANDER  VON  AUERSPERG  (German). 

Translation  in  EDINBURGH  REVIEW. 


Personal  Poems.  179 


TO  GEEIZAEftT  YOSSIVS. 

ON   THE   LOSS   OP   HIS   SON. 

WHY  mourn'st  thou,  Vossius  ?  why  has  pain 
Its  furrows  to  thy  pale  brow  given  ? 
Seek  not  to  hold  thy  son  from  Heaven  ! 

"Tis  Heaven  that  draws, — resign  him,  then. 

Yes, — banish  every  futile  tear, 

And  offer  to  its  Source  above, 

In  gratitude  and  humble  love, 
The  choicest  of  thy  treasures  here. 

We  murmur,  if  the  bark  should  strand : 
But  not,  when,  richly  laden,  she 
Comes  from  the  wild  and  raging  sea, 

Within  a  haven  safe  to  land. 

We  murmur,  if  the  balm  be  shed ; 
Yes, — murmur  for  the  odor's  sake  : 
But  not,  whene'er  the  glass  may  break, 

If  that  which  filled  it  be  not  fled. 

He  strives  in  vain  who  seeks  to  stay 
The  bounding  waters  in  their  course, 
When  hurled  from  rocks  with  giant  force, 

Towards  some  calm  and  spacious  bay. 

Thus  turns  the  earthly  globe ; — though  o'er 
His  infant's  corse  a  father  mourn, 
Or  child  bedew  its  parents'  urn, — 

Death  passes  neither  house  nor  door. 


180  Personal  Poems. 


Death,  nor  for  gay  and  blooming  youth 
Nor  peevish  age,  his  stroke  defers ; 
He  chains  the  lips  of  orators, 

Nor  cares  for  wisdom,  worth,  or  truth. 

Blest  is  the  mind,  that,  fixed  and  free, 
To  wanton  pleasures  scorns  to  yield, 
And  wards,  as  with  a  pliant  shield, 

The  arrows  of  adversity. 

JOOST  VAN  DEN  VONDEL  (Dutch). 

Translation  of  fc>m  JOHN  BOWRING. 


GZIJYSJCI. 

IN  a  dark  dreary  dungeon,  where  the  beam 

The  gladdening  beam  of  sunlight  never  shone ; 

Where  from  the  dismal  roof,  its  little  stream 
Of  twilight  poured  a  pendant  lamp ; — alone 

And  conscience-tortured  sat,  to  misery  bound, 

Glinski,  in  victory  and  in  crime  renowned. 

His  forehead,  years  and  grief  had  furrowed  o'er, 
His  gray  hair  hung  disordered  on  his  brow ; 

His  bloody  sockets  saw  the  light  no  more ; 

Ploughed  were  his  wasted  cheeks  with  scars  and  woe. 

He  sat  and  leaned  upon  his  hands ;  his  groans 

Were  echoed  by  the  dungeon's  gloomy  stones. 

With  him  his  only  child,  his  daughter  fair, 
A  very  gem  of  virtue,  grace  and  youth ; 

She  left  the  smiling  world  and  the  free  air 
Her  miserable  father's  woes  to  soothe : 

Pleased  in  that  fearful  solitude  to  stay, 

While  life's  young  bloom  fled  silently  away. 


Personal  Poems.  181 


"  Father !  I  pray  th.ee  by  these  tender  tears," 

So  spake  the  maid,  "  be  comforted  and  chase 
Despair ;  though  chains  hang  heavy  on  thy  years, 

Yet  hope  deserts  not  e'en  this  desert  place ; — 
Time  yet  may  smile  upon  thee  :  thou  may'st  rest 
Thy  gray  old  age  upon  thy  country's  breast." 

"  My  country  !  breathe  not  that  dread  name  to  me, 

For  crimes  rush  down  upon  my  tortured  thought, 
And  wakened  conscience  gnaws  the  memory, 
And  gentle  sleep  these  eyes  will  visit  not. 
Did  I  not  heed  her  foes  ?    And  can  the  name 
Of  '  traitor '  but  be  linked  to  death  and  shame  ? 

"  All  that  can  raise  a  man  above  mankind ; — 

All  that  is  good  and  great  in  war  or  peace, — 
Power — riches — beauty — courage — strength  of  mind, — 

Yes  !    Nature  gave  me  these,  and  more  than  these : 
I  wanted  nought  but  laurels,  which  I  found, 
And  glory's  trophies  wreathed  my  temples  round. 

"  The  locust-swarming  hosts  of  Tartars  broke 

Upon  Lithuania  and  Volhynia's  land, — 

Plundering,  destroying  :  their  terrific  yoke 

Spared  neither  sex  nor  age  :  the  fiery  brand 
Of  desolation  swept  the  country  o'er, — 
Children  and  mothers  drowned  in  fathers'  gore. 

"  I  sought  the  invaders'  ravage  to  withstand. 

Proud  of  their  strength,  in  widespread  camps  they  lay 
But  they  were  scattered  by  my  victor  hand  : 

The  misty  eve  looked  on  the  battle  fray, 
While  corpses  on  the  Niemen's  waters  rode, 
And  Infidel  blood  the  thirsty  fields  o'erflowed. 


182  Personal  Poems. 


"  When  Alexander  on  his  dying  bed 

Lay,  mourned  by  all  his  children-subjects,  came 
The  news  that  the  defeated  Tartars  fled  : 

Upon  his  clouded  brow-joy's  holy  flame 
Kindled  sweet  peace.     '  Now  let  me,  let  me  die, 
For  I  bequeath  to  Poland  victory  ! ' 

"  My  deeds,  my  monarch's  praises  warmed  my  breast, 

And  love  of  daring  violence  grew.     The  fame 
Of  Zabrzezynski  oft  disturbed  my  rest. 

I —  a  most  foul  and  midnight  murderer — came 
And  butchered  all  in  sleep.     My  Poles  rebelled : — 
I  joined  with  Poland's  foes,  by  rage  impelled. 

"  Flagitious  sin,  and  memory's  fiercest  smart : 

The  eagle  blended  with  the  hurrying  steed 
From  cruelty  and  crime  won  not  my  heart, 

Nor  sheathed  the  sword  that  did  the  cruel  deed. 
The  foeman  Russ  I  bent  to  my  control, 
And  fought  'gainst  Poles, — e'en  I— e'en  I — a  Pole  ! 

"  I  looked  upon  the  battle-field :  I  saw 

Many  a  well-known  corpse  among  the  dead. 
Then  did  fierce  agony  my  bosom  gnaw, 

Then  burning  tears  of  conscious  guilt  were  shed : 
And  I  implored  forgiveness — from  my  king, — 
Forgiveness  for  a  vile  and  outcast  thing. 

"  I  told  my  penitent  tale.     My  foes  had  wrought 

Upon  the  Czar,  and  roused  him  to  distrust. 
He  met  indignantly  my  honest  thought, 

Dashed  my  awakening  virtue  to  the  dust : 
Bid  them  tear  out  my  eyes,  and  bind  me  here 
In  galling  fetters  to  this  dungeon  drear. 


Personal  Poems.  183 


"  Ten  years  have  passed  ;  and  yet  I  live.     The  sun 

And  the  gay  stars  shine  on,  but  not  for  nie : 
Darkness  and  torments  with  my  being  run ; 

My  strength  decays :  my  blood  flows  freezingly 
Through  my  chilled  veins ;  and  death — not  gentle  death — 
Lays  its  rude  hand  upon  my  weakening  breath. 

"  Yet  a  few  days  this  corpse,  my  grief's  remains, 

Will  ask  a  handful  of  unfriendly  earth. 
Leave  then,  my  child,  these  foul  arid  foreign  plains, 

Blest  who  can  claim  the  country  of  his  birth : 
The  Poles  forgive, — and  thou  shalt  be  forgiven ; 
My  child  be  blest,  and  I  be  left  to  Heaven  ! 

"  Yes  !  thou  shalt  see  thy  country,  and  its  smile 

Shall  chase  the  memory  of  these  gloomy  days ; 
Thy  father's  princely  hall  shall  greet  thee ;  while 

Thy  thought  o'er  long-departed  glory  strays  : 
Thy  friends,  thy  countrymen,  shall  welcome  thee, 
Give  thee  their  love, — but  pour  their  curse  on  me. 

"  Yet  e'en  my  death  may  hallowed  thoughts  inspire : 

From  this  scathed  trunk  may  wisdom's  blossoms  grow : 
My  history  shall  check  revengeful  ire, — 

None  other  Pole  shall  join  his  country's  foe. 
Why  should  a  traitor  live  when  he  hath  bound 
His  veiled  and  sorrowing  country  to  the  ground?" 

Thus  spake  the  miserable  man.     A  groan, 
A  dark  and  hollow  groan,  the  dungeon  filled : 

On  her  pale  breast  his  snow-white  head  was  thrown, 
Death's  shade  o'ershadowed  it — and  all  was  stilled. 

So  died  the  mighty  Glinski ; — better  lot 

Might  have  been  his  ; — but  he  deserved  it  not. 

JULIAN  URSIN  NIEMCEWICZ  (Polish). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWRING. 


184  Personal  Poems. 


EARL   OF  EGMOJVT. 

HERE  Egmont  lies  !  who  fell  through  Alva's  hate — 
The  shield  of  Netherland — the  brave — the  great ! 
Who  made  proud  France  twice  bow  the  trembling  knee, 
While  at  his  fall  fell  right  and  liberty. 

GERARD  BRANDT  (Dutch). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWRINO. 


OJV  J-.  ZIZKA    TOJV  T'ROTZJYOW. 


WHO  rears  his  country's  fair  renown 
Shall  earn  a  patriot's  lofty  praise  — 

Yes  !  he  shall  wear  a  laurel  crown, 
And  him  shall  sing  the  poet's  lays  ; 
What  prouder  fame,  what  greener  bays 

Can  history  offer  ?  —  be  his  meed 
Eternal  laud  within  the  shrine, 
Lighted  by  glory's  lamp  divine, 

That  every  triumph,  every  deed 
Thro'  everlasting  years  may  shine. 

Zizka  !  Bohemia's  chief,  arise  ! 

Of  murdered  Hus  th'  avenger  thou  ! 
Thou  hast  o'erwhelm'd  thine  enemies 

In  the  fierce  battle-field,  and  now 

They  perish  in  the  dust  below. 
And  the  whole  world  has  seen  how  great 

A  patriot's  victory  may  be  ; 

When  arm'd,  Bohemia  !  —  arm'd  for  thee. 
(0  laurels  on  thy  bidding  wait, 

To  crown  thee  for  eternity  !) 


Personal  Poems.  185 


And  see  !  what  crowded  German  bands — 

Steeds  clamp  and  weapons  clang — from  Khine 

And  Oder's  thickly-peopled  lands ; 
And  mountain-warriors  there  combine 
From  distant  Alp  and  Apennine  : 

Hungarians  too,  and  neighboring  Poles, 
And  practised  Saxons,  tell  us  why 
Ye  lift  your  swords,  your  lances  high? 

0  !  popish  briefs  and  popish  bulls 
Have  preach'd  of  our  apostasy. 

Like  blackest  locust-clouds  they  come, 

Our  own  Bohemia  to  enslave ; 
And  who,  from  such  a  storm,  our  home, 
Our  country  can  protect  or  save  ? 

For  what  avail  the  wise  or  brave  ? 
Who  can  resist  the  torrent's  sway? 

"When  they  are  nigh  we  disappear : 

It  is  not  doubt,  it  is  not  fear ; 
They  drink  the  rivers  on  their  way, 

And  everywhere  their  banners  rear. 

Thy  voice,  re-echoed  o'er  the  land, 
Wakes  all  Bohemia  at  thy  name ; 

And  every  heart  and  every  hand 
Are  quicken'd  by  the  living  flame 
Of  courage.     But  what  lust  of  fame, 

What  mad  ambition  lured  our  foes  1 
We  came — we  look'd — our  hero  then 
Summon'd  his  bands  of  chosen  men, 

And  as  the  storm  the  surge-scurf  blows 
We  scatter'd  all  their  might  again. 

Still  Zatetz's  plains  are  bleak  and  bare, 
Still  towers  old  Brodsky's  mountain  dell, 
16 


186  Personal  Poems. 


Where,  as  the  greyhound  drives  the  hare, 
Thou  with  thy  Tabrites  didst  compel 
All,  all  to  fly,  but  those  who  fell : 

Proud  Praga  looks  on  Zizkow's  hill, 
Still  pleas'd  that  hallow'd  spot  to  see, 

•*» 

Where  Zizka  leagued  with  victory, 
And  dreams  play'd  round  Bohemia  still, 
The  dreams  of  peace  and  liberty. 

Then  Germany,  who  felt  the  shame 

Of  Swabia's  daring  enterprise, 
And  that  our  Hus,  Bohemia's  fame, 

Had  been  the  bloody  sacrifice  ; 

There,  where  the  Rhine  so  swiftly  flies, 
Kais'd  up  her  flag — thou  Saxon  mound, 

Y"e  Austrian  hills,  now  witness  bear, 

How,  towering  o'er  each  mountain  there, 
Bohemia's  lion  roar'd  around, 

Bohemia's  banner  flapp'd  the  air. 

Then  Glory,  with  her  golden  ray, 

And  silver  trumpets  pour'd  thy  praise : 

And  wing'd  her  bright  and  rustling  way 
O'er  the  wide  world,  thy  fame  to  raise 
And  bid  the  nations  on  thee  gaze. 

But  with  thy  victories  did  she  tell 
What  deeds  of  darkness  and  of  dread 
Were  round  those  glorious  victories  spread, 

And  that  thy  name  had  been  the  spell, 
From  which  all  life  and  blessing  fled  ? 

Zizka  !  thy  fame  had  blinded  thee, 
And  Fortune,  with  accustom'd  sneer, 


Personal  Poems.  187 


Had  dregg'd  her  cup  with  treachery, 
And  pour'd  her  poisons  in  thine  ear. 
Whose  valor  came  thy  valor  near1? 

Thou,  like  the  illustrious  Hannibal, 
When  he,  on  Cannae's  glorious  day, 
Swept  all  the  Koman  hosts  away, 

On  thine  own  Cannae  didst  appal 
And  overwhelm  Germania. 

Thou  hadst  a  glorious  triumph  then, 
When  midst  a  whole  world's  envying, 

In  victory's  loud  and  joyous  train, 
Thou  didst  thy  golden  booty  bring, 
And  on  Bohemia's  altars  fling : 

How  loudly  was  the  welcome  pour'd 
From  every  patriot  Ceskian  tongue, 
Man,  child,  youth,  maiden,  woman  flung, 

To  thee,  thy  country's  son  ador'd, 

The  wreaths  their  busy  hands  had  strung. 

Why  didst  thou  dip  that  sacred  wreath, 
O  Zizka  !  in  thy  brothers'  blood  ? 

Why  bow  thee  from  thy  height,  beneath, 
And  turn  to  evil  all  thy  good  ? 
Why  didst  thou  loose  thy  savage  brood 

On  monks  and  nobles,  in  thy  rage 
Give  reins  to  riot,  overthrow 
Castles  and  towers,  and,  deaf  to  woe, 

Whelm  all  and  rear  o'er  all  a  stage, 

Where  error  and  where  crime  might  grow  ? 

Those  ruins,  which  seem  curs'd,  and  frown 
As  if  some  evil  ghosts  were  there  ; 


188  Personal  Poems. 


Where  bravery  scarce  dares  stay  alone, 

O  what  a  woeful  page  they  are 

Of  man  in  passion's  tierce  career : 
The  very  winds  that  whistle  thro' 

Seem  shuddering  midst  the  gloomy  pile : 

There  spectres  meet,  and  sigh  awhile ; 
And  as  the  screech-owls  cry  to-whoo  ! 

The  fiends  of  evil  shriek  and  smile. 

ASTONIN  PUCHMAYER  (Bohemian). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWRINO. 


ELEGY  OJV  THE  3>OET'S   WIFE. 

THE  gulls  that  twitter  on  the  rush-grown  shore 

When  fall  the  shades  of  night, 
That  o'er  the  waves  in  loving  pairs  do  soar 

When  shines  the  morning  light — 
'Tis  said  e'en  these  poor  birds  delight 

To  nestle,  each,  between  his  darling's  wing, 

That  gentle  fluttering, 
Through  the  dark  hours,  wards  off  the  hoar-frost's  might. 

Like  to  the  stream  that  finds 
The  downward  path,  it  never  may  retrace : 

Like  to  the  shapeless  winds, 
Poor  mortals  pass  away,  without  a  trace  : 

So,  she  I  love  has  left  her  place. 
And  in  a  corner  of  my  widowed  couch, 
Wrapped  in  the  robe  she  wove  me,  I  must  crouch, 

Far  from  her  fond  embrace. 

NIBI  (Japanese). 

Traiislation  of  BASIL  HALL  CHAMBERLAIN. 


Personal  Poems.  189 


OJV  THE  POET'S  YOUJYG  SOJV. 


SEVEN  are  the  treasures  mortals  most  do  prize, 

But  I  regard  them  not : 
One  only  jewel  could  delight  mine  eyes — 

The  child  that  I  begot; 

My  darling  boy  who  with  the  morning  sun 

Began  his  joyous  day  : 
Nor  ever  left  me,  but  with  childlike  fun 

Would  make  me  help  him  play : 

Who'd  take  my  hand  when  eve  its  shadows  spread, 

Saying,  "  I'm  sleepy  grown, 
'Twixt  thee  and  mother  I  would  lay  my  head ; 

Oh  !  leave  me  not  alone  ! " 

Then  with  his  pretty  prattle  in  mine  ears, 

I'd  lie  awake  and  scan 
The  good  and  evil  of  the  coming  years, 

And  see  the  child  a  man. 

And  as  the  seaman  trusts  his  bark,  I'd  trust 
That  naught  could  harm  the  boy : 

Alas !  I  wist  not  that  the  whistling  gust 
Would  shipwreck  all  my  joy  ! 

Then  with  despairing,  helpless  hands  I  grasp'd 

The  sacred  mirror's  sphere  ; 
And  round  my  shoulder  I  my  garments  clasp'd 

And  pray'd  with  many  a  tear : 


190  Personal  Poems. 


"  'Tis  yours,  great  gods,  that  dwell  in  Heaven  on  high, 

Great  gods  of  earth,  'tis  yours 

To  heed,  or  heed  not,  a  poor  father's  cry, 

Who  worships,  and  implores !" 

Alas  !  vain  prayers  that  more,  no  more  avail ! 

He  languish'd  day  hy  day, 
Till  e'en  his  infant  speech  began  to  fail, 

And  life  soon  ebb'd  away. 

Stagg'ring  with  grief  I  strike  my  sobbing  breast, 

And  wildly  dance  and  groan  ! 
Ah  !  such  is  life  !  the  child  that  I  caress'd 

Far  from  mine  arms  hath  flown  ! 

NIBI  (Japanese). 

Translation  of  BASIL  HALL  CHAMBERLAIN. 


PATRIOTIC 


AND 


HISTORICAL    POEMS, 


NOT  on  the  lips,  nor  yet  in  memory's  trace 
Should  that  man  live,  though  rapid  in  the  race, 
And  firm  in  wrestling :  though  Cyclopean  might 
Be  his,  and  fleetness  like  a  whirlwind's  flight : 
Though  than  Tithonus  lovelier  to  behold ; 
Like  Cynaras,  or  Midas,  graced  with  gold : 
Than  Pelops'  realm  more  kingly  his  domain  ; 
More  sweet  his  language  than  Adrastus'  strain ; 
Not  though  he  boast  all  else  of  mortal  praise, 
Yet  want  the  glory  of  the  warrior's  bays. 
He  is  not  brave,  who  not  endures  the  sight 
Of  blood ;  nor,  man  to  man,  in  closest  fight, 
Still  pants  to  press  the  foe  :  here  bravery  lies ; 
And  here  of  human  fame  the  chiefest  prize. 
This  noblest  badge  the  youth  of  honor  bears, 
And  this  the  brightest  ornament  he  wears. 
This,  as  a  common  good,  the  state  possess, 
And  a  whole  people  here,  their  safety  bless. 
Firm  and  unyielding,  when  the  armed  man 
Still  presses  on,  and  combats  in  the  van ; 
And  casts  the  thought  of  shameful  flight  away; 
And  patient-daring,  to  the  perilous  fray 


192  Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems. 

Presents  his  life  and  soul ;  and,  with  his  eye, 
And  voice,  exhorts  his  fellow-men  to  die, 
Here  is  the  warrior  found  ;  this,  this  is  bravery. 
He  breaks  the  bristling  phalanx  from  afar : 
His  foresight  rules  the  floating  wave  of  war ; 
Fallen  in  the  foremost  ranks,  he  leaves  a  name, 
His  father's  glory,  and  his  country's  fame. 
All  on  the  front  he  bears  full  many  a  wound 
That  rived  his  breast-plate  and  his  buckler's  round : 
Old  men  and  youths  let  fall  the  sorrowing  tear, 
And  a  whole  people  mourns  around  his  bier. 
Fame  decks  his  tomb,  and  shall  his  children  grace, 
And  children's  children,  to  their  latest  race. 
For  ne'er  his  name,  his  generous  glory,  dies ; 
Though  tomb'd  in  earth,  he  shall  immortal  rise ; 
Who  dared,  persisting,  in  the  field  remain, 
And  act  his  deeds,  till  number'd  with  the  slain ; 
While  charging  thousands  rush'd,  resisting  stood, 
And  for  his  sons  and  country  pour'd  his  blood. 
But  if,  escaping  the  long  sleep  of  death, 
He  win  the  splendid  battle's  glorious  wreath ; 
Him,  with  fond  gaze,  gray  sires  and  youths  behold, 
And  life  is  pleasant,  till  his  days  are  old. 
Conspicuous  'midst  the  citizens  he  wears 
The  silver  glory  of  his  snowy  hairs. 
None  'gainst  his  peace  conspire  with  shameless  hate, 
None  seek  to  wrong  the  saviour  of  the  State  : 
The  younger,  and  his  equals,  reverent  rise ; 
His  elders  quit  their  seats,  with  honoring  eyes ; 
Then  to  this  height  of  generous  deeds  aspire ; 
And  let  the  soul  of  war  thy  patriot  bosom  fire. 

(Greek). 
Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems,  193 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  STATS. 

WHAT  constitutes  a  state  1 
Not  high  raised  battlement,  or  labored  mound, 

Thick  wall  or  moated  gate  : 
Not  cities  fair,  with  spires  and  turrets  crown'd : 

No  : — Men,  high-minded  men — 
With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 

In  forest,  brake  or  den, 
As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude — 

Men,  who  their  duties  know, 
But  know  their  rights,  and,  knowing,  dare  maintain ; 

Prevent  the  long-aimed  blow, 
And  crush  the  tyrant,  while  they  rend  the  chain. 

ALOECS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SIB  WILLIAM  JONES. 


ON  THOSE  WHO  FELL  AT  THERMOPYLAE. 

IN  dark  Thermopylae  they  lie  ; 
Oh  death  of  glory  thus  to  die  ! 
Their  tomb  an  altar  is,  their  name 
A  mighty  heritage  of  fame  : 
Their  dirge  is  triumph ;  cankering  rust, 
And  time  that  turneth  all  to  dust, 
That  tomb  shall  never  waste  nor  hide — 
The  tomb  of  warriors  true  and  tried. 
The  full-voiced  praise  of  Greece  around 
Lies  buried  in  that  sacred  mound ; 
Where  Sparta's  king,  Leonidas, 
In  death  eternal  glory  has. 

SIMONIDES  (Greek). 

Translation  of  ROBERT  BLAND. 
17 


194  Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems. 


TO  MT  JV&TIY& 

WIDE  have  I  wandered,  far  beyond  the  sea, 
Even  to  the  distant  shores  of  Sicily  ; 
To  broad  Euboea's  plentiful  domain, 
With  the  rich  vineyards  in  its  planted  plain  ; 
And  to  the  sunny  wave  and  winding  edge 
Of  fair  Eurotas  with  its  reedy  sedge  — 
Where  Sparta  stands  in  simple  majesty  : 
Among  her  manly  rulers  there  was  I,  — 
Greeted  and  welcomed  there  and  everywhere 
With  courteous  entertainment,  kind  and  fair  ; 
Yet  still  my  weary  spirit  would  repine, 
Longing  again  to  view  tliis  land  of  mine  ; 
Henceforward,  no  design,  no  interest 
Shall  ever  move  me,  but  the  first  and  best  ; 
With  Learning's  happy  gift  to  celebrate, 
Adorn,  and  dignify  my  native  State. 
The  song,  and  dance,  music  and  verse  agreeing, 
Will  occupy  my  life  and  fill  my  being  ; 
Pursuits  of  elegance  and  learned  skill 
(With  good  repute,  and  kindness,  and  good  will 
Among  the  wisest  sort),  will  pass  my  time 
Without  an  enemy,  without  a  crime  ; 
Harmless  and  just  with  every  rank  of  men, 
Both  the  free  native  and  the  denizen. 

THEOGNIS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  FBERE. 


Go  tell  the  Spartans,  thou  who  passest  by, 
That  here,  obedient  to  her  laws,  we  lie. 

SIMONIDES  (Greek). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems.  195 


OJV  CIMOJY'S  £jiJV2>  AJY3)  SEA    VICTORY. 

NE'ER  since  the  olden  time,  when  Asia  stood 
First  torn  from  Europe  by  the  ocean  flood, 
Since  horrid  Mars  thus  poured  on  either  shore 
The  storm  of  battle  and  the  wild  uproar, 
Hath  man  by  land  and  sea  such  glory  won, 
Ne'er  seen  such  deeds,  as  thou,  this  day,  hast  done. 
By  land,  the  Medes  in  thousands  press  the  ground ; 
By  sea,  an  hundred  Tyrian  ships  are  drown'd 
With  all  their  martial  host ;  while  Asia  stands^ 
Deep  groaning  by,  and  wrings  her  helpless  hands. 

SIMONIDES  (Greet). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERJVALE. 


CHORUS. 

TELL  me,  ye  gales,  ye  rising  gales, 
That  lightly  sweep  along  the  azure  plain, 

Whose  soft  breath  fills  the  swelling  sails, 
And  waft  the  vessel  dancing  o'er  the  main, 

Whither,  ah  !  whither  will  ye  bear 

This  sick'ning  daughter  of  despair  ? 
What  proud  lord's  rigor  shall  the  slave  deplore 
On  Doric,  or  on  Phthian  shore ; 

Where  the  rich  father  of  translucent  floods, 
Apidanus,  pours  his  headlong  waves, 

Through  sunny  plains,  through  darksome  woods, 
And  with  his  copious  stream  the  fertile  valleys  laves  ? 

Or  shall  the  wave-impelling  oar 
Bear  to  the  hallow'd  isle  my  frantic  woes, 

Beneath  whose  base  the  billows  roar, 
And  my  hard  house  of  bondage  round  enclose  ? 


196  Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems. 


Where  the  new  palm,  and  laurel  where 

Shot  their  first  branches  to  the  air, 
Spread  their  green  honors  o'er  Latona's  head, 

And  interwove  their  sacred  shade. 
There,  'midst  the  Delian  nymphs,  awake  the  lyre, 

To  Dian  sound  the  solemn  strain, 
Her  tresses  bound  in  golden  wire, 

Queen  of  the  silver  bow,  and  goddess  of  the  plain. 

Or  where  the  Athenian  towers  arise, 
Shall  these  hands  weave  the  woof,  whose  radiant  glow 

Eivals  the  flow'r-impurpled  dyes 
That  on  the  bosom  of  the  young  Spring  blow ; 

Alas,  my  children,  battle-slain  ! 
Alas,  my  parents  !     Let  me  drop  the  tear, 

And  raise  the  mournful,  plaintive  strain, 
Your  loss  lamenting  and  misfortune  drear. 

Thee,  chief,  imperial  Troy,  thy  State 

I  mourn  deserted,  desolate  ; 
Thy  walls,  thy  bulwarks  smoking  on  the  ground, 

The  sword  of  Greece  triumphant  round ; 

I,  far  from  Asia,  o'er  the  wide  sea  bom, 
In  some  strange  land  am  called  a  slave, 

Outcast  to  insolence  and  scorn, 
And  for  my  nuptial  bed  find  a  detested  grave. 

EURIPIDES  (Greek). 

Translation  of  ROBERT  POTTER. 

FRAGMENT. 

THIS  is  true  liberty,  when  free-born  men, 
Having  to  advise  the  public,  may  speak  free ; 
Which  he  who  can  and  will,  deserves  high  praise : 
Who  neither  can,  nor  will,  may  hold  his  peace : 
What  can  be  juster  in  a  State  than  this  ? 

EURIPIDES  (Greek).    Translation  of  S.  ROGERS. 


Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems.  197 


THE  TEKSIAJY  SLATE  TO  HIS  MASTER. 

0  MASTER  !  shroud  my  body,  when  I  die, 
In  decent  cerements  from  the  vulgar  eye. 
But  burn  me  not  upon  yon  funeral  pyre, 
Nor  dare  the  gods  and  desecrate  their  fire ; 

1  am  a  Persian ;  'twere  a  Persian's  shame 
To  dip  his  body  in  the  sacred  flame. 

Nor  o'er  my  worthless  limbs  your  waters  pour ; 
For  streams  and  fountains  Persia's  sons  adore  : 
But  leave  me  to  the  clods  that  gave  us  birth, — 
For  dust  should  turn  to  dust,  and  earth  to  earth. 

DIOSCOKIDES  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


ALTERED   CONDITION  OF1  ATHENS. 

IT  grieves  me  to  behold  the  commonwealth — 

Things  were  not  thus  administered  of  old ; 

Then  men  of  sense  and  virtue, — men,  whose  merits 

Gave  them  consideration  in  the  State, — 

Held  the  first  offices :  to  such  we  bowed 

As  to  the  gods — and  gods,  indeed,  they  were — 

For  under  their  wise  counsels  we  enjoyed 

Security  and  peace. — But  now,  alas  ! 

We  have  no  other  guide  in  our  elections 

Save  chance,  blind  chance,  and  on  whatever  head 

It  falls,  though  worst  and  meanest  of  mankind, 

Up  starts  he  a  great  man,  and  is  at  once 

Install'd  prime  Rogue  and  Minister  of  State. 

EUPOLIS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  RICHARD  CUMBERLAND. 


198  Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems. 


WHEN  Thrasybulus  from  the  embattled  field 
Was  breathless  borne  to  Sparta  on  his  shield, 
His  honored  corse,  disfigured  still  with  gore, 
From  seven  wide  wounds  (but  all  received  before), 
Upon  the  pyre  his  hoary  father  laid, 
And  to  the  admiring  crowd  triumphant  said : 
Let  slaves  lament, — while  I,  without  a  tear, 
Lay  mine  and  Sparta's  son  upon  his  bier. 

DIOSCORIDES  (Greek). 
Translation  of  J.  H.  MEBIVALE. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

How  long  will  ye  slumber  ?  when  will  ye  take  heart, 
And  fear  the  reproach  of  your  neighbors  at  hand  ? 

Fy,  comrades  !  to  think  ye  have  peace  for  your  part, 
Whilst  the  sword  and  the  arrow  are  wasting  our  land ! 

Shame  !  grasp  the  shield  close  !  cover  well  the  bold  breast ! 

Aloft  raise  the  spear  as  ye  march  on  the  foe  ! 
With  no  thought  of  retreat — with  no  terror  confess'd, 

Hurl  your  last  dart  in  dying,  or  strike  your  last  blow ! 

Oh  !  'tis  noble  and  glorious  to  fight  for  our  all — 

For  our  country — our  children — the  wife  of  our  love ! 

Death  comes  not  the  sooner  ! — no  soldier  shall  fall 
Ere  his  thread  is  spun  out  by  the  sisters  above  ! 

Once  to  die  is  man's  doom  !  rush,  rush  to  the  fight ! 

He  cannot  escape  though  his  blood  were  Jove's  own ; — 
For  awhile  let  him  cheat  the  shrill  arrow  by  flight : 

Fate  will  catch  him  at  last  in  his  chamber  alone  ! 


Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems.  199 

Unlamented  he  dies — unregretted — not  so, 

When,  the  tower  of  his  country,  in  death  falls  the  brave ; 
Thrice  halloAved  his  name  amongst  all,  high  or  low, 

As  with  blessings  alive,  so  with  tears  in  the  grave. 

CALLINUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  H.  N.  COLERIDGE. 


TO 

j±T  YAftlAJVCE  WITH  THE  OA'JB 
TO   WHICH  THE  TOET 


WHY  thus  to  passion  give  the  rein  ? 

Why  seek  your  kindred  tribe  to  wrong  ? 
Why  strive  to  drag  to  light  again 

The  fatal  feud  entomb'd  so  long  ? 

Think  not  if  fury  ye  display, 

But  equal  fury  we  can  deal  ; 
Hope  not,  if  wronged,  but  we  repay 

Revenge  for  every  wrong  we  feeL 

Why  thus  to  passion  give  the  rein  ? 

Why  seek  the  robe  of  peace  to  tear  1 
Kash  youths,  desist,  your  course  restrain, 

Or  dread  the  vengeance  which  ye  dare. 

Yet  friendship  we  nor  ask  from  foes, 

Nor  favor  e'er  shall  hope  to  prove, 
We  lov'd  you  not,  great  Allah  knows, 

Nor  blam'd  you  that  ye  could  not  love. 

To  each  are  different  feelings  given, 

This  slights,  and  that  regards  his  brother  : 

'Tis  ours  to  live  —  thanks  to  kind  Heaven  — 
Hating  and  hated  by  each  other. 

ALFADHEL  IBN  ALABAS  (Arabian).    Translation  of  J.  D.  CAKLYLE. 


200  Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems. 


COUJYTftT. 

(A  spirit  with  a  naked  sword.) 

"  A  shadowy  form  I  come  from  Babigor  ; 

Sent  by  thy  country  to  her  doubting  son  — 
O  !  on  love's  triflings  waste  thy  soul  no  more  : 
Mina,  or  country  —  choose,  and  choose  but  one." 

(A  spirit  with  a  bent  bow.) 

"  I  visit  thee  from  love's  flower-scatter'd  shore  ; 

Three  days  my  arrow  Lada  has  possess'd 
To  sharpen  ;  tell  me,  tell  me,  I  implore, 

Dost  love  thy  country  or  thy  Mina  best  T" 
The  midnight  struck  ;  I  left  the  awful  spot, 

My  eye  still  fix'd  iipon  the  misty  shade  — 
The  sword  —  the  arrow  —  Mina  —  country  —  what 

But  doubt  and  silence  —  on  my  breast  I  laid 
My  hand,  tore  out  and  broke  in  twain  my  heart  : 

My  country  !  —  Mina  !  —  each  shall  have  a  part. 

JOHN  KOLLAB  (Bohemian). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWJUNO. 


THERE,  where  the  swift  Ehone's  waters  flow 

Its  verdant  banks  between, 
Where  fragrant  myrtles  bending  grow, 

And  Rhone  reflects  their  green : 
There,  where  the  vineyards  deck  the  hills, 

And  o'er  the  valleys  spread 
With  golden  citrons'  fragrance  fills, 

And  plantains  rear  their  head — 


Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems.  201 

There  stood,  as  sunk  the  lord  of  day, 

Upon  the  smiling  shore, 
One  who  long  watched  the  waters  play, 

And  thought  his  sorrows  o'er ; 
A  Kussian  hero,  stolen  by  war, 

The  honor  of  the  Don ; 
Divided  from  his  friends  afar, 

He  wandered  there  alone. 

"  0  roll ! "  he  sang,  "  ye  waters  roll — 

Flow  in  your  glory  on ; 
Your  waves  shall  waken  on  my  soul 

The  memory  of  the  Don. 
My  days  pass  hy  without  an  aim, 

Amidst  life's  busy  roar ; 
For  what  is  life  without  its  fame, 

Or  the  bright  world  ? — 'tis  poor. 

"  Now  nature  wears  its  spring-tide  dress, 

The  sun  shines  splendidly ; 
All  liberty  and  loveliness, — 

0  !  why  am  I  not  free  ? 
0  roll,  ye  waters  !  rage,  thou  Rhone  ! 

And  waken,  as  ye  roll, 
The  thoughts  of  my  domestic  zone, 

Within  my  troubled  soul. 

"  The  maidens  here  are  fair  and  bright, 

Their  glance  is  full  of  fire ; 
And  their  all-graceful  smiles  of  light 

Might  satisfy  desire. 
But  what  is  love  in  foreign  lands — 

Or  joy  ?     I  only  know 
The  joy  and  love  that  bless  our  sands, 

Midst  forests  and  'midst  snow. 


202  Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems. 

"  Give  me  my  freedom — let  me  tread, 

Once  more  my  country's  strand ; 
With  frost  and  storm  all  .overspread — 

My  home — my  fatherland ! 
Deep  is  the  snow  around  my  door ; 

But  give  me  my  own  steed, 
And  day  and  night,  the  mountains  o'er, 

Me  to  my  home  he'll  lead. 

"  At  home  there's  one  who  sits  and  keeps 

The  memory  of  her  love ; 
And  often  to  the  window  creeps, 

And  pours  her  prayers  ahove. 
She  guards  the  thoughts  of  him  whose  mind 

Guards  every  thought  of  her ; 
She  pats  the  horse  I  left  behind — 

How  privileged  to  be  there  ! 

"  0  roll,  thou  Ehone  !  ye  waters  roll — 

Rush  in  your  glory  on ; 
Your  waves  still  waken  in  my  soul 

The  memory  of  the  Don. 
Come,  winds  !  come  hither  from  the  north, 

Come  in  your  freshness,  come ; 
And  thou,  bright  pole-star,  blazen  forth, 

Memento  of  my  home." 

So  spake  the  prisoner,  as  he  turned 

To  Lyons  his  tired  eye, 
When  long  in  exile's  chains  he  mourned 

His  hapless  destiny. 
He  sang — the  Rhone  roll'd  proudly  on, 

The  moon  oft  kiss'd  its  tide ; 
And  oft  on  Lyons'  turrets  shone 

The  sun,  in  all  his  pride. 

BATIUSHKOV  (Russian).    Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWBINO. 


Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems.  203 


2)EC02tATlOJV. 

MY  love  looks  well  under  his  helmet's  crest ; 

He  went  to  war,  and  did  not  let  them  see 
His  back,  and  so  his  wound  is  in  the  breast : 

For  one  he  got,  he  struck  and  gave  them  three. 
When  he  came  back,  I  loved  him,  hurt  so,  best ; 

He  married  me,  and  loves  me  tenderly. 

When  he  goes  by,  and  people  give  him  way, 

I  thank  God  for  my  fortune  every  day ; 

When  he  goes  by,  he  seems  more  grand  and  fair 

Than  any  crossed  and  ribboned  cavalier  • 

The  cavalier  grew  up  with  his  cross  on, 

And  I  know  how  my  darling's  cross  was  won ! 

FRANCESCO  DALL'  ONGARO  (Italian). 

Translation  of  HOWELLS. 


GLEANER  OF1 

THEY  were  three  hundred,  they  were  young  and  strong, 

And  they  are  dead  ! 

One  morning  as  I  went  to  glean  the  grain, 
I  saw  a  bark  in  middle  of  the  main ; 
It  was  a  bark  came  steaming  to  the  shore, 
And  hoisted  for  its  flag  the  tricolor. 
At  Ponza's  isle  it  stopped  beneath  the  lea, 
It  stayed  awhile,  and  then  put  out  to  sea, 
Put  out  to  sea,  and  came  unto  our  strand ; 
Landed  with  arms,  but  not  as  foemen  land. 
They  were  three  hundred,  they  were  young  and  strong, 

And  they  are  dead  ! 


204  Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems. 

Landed  with  arms,  but  not  as  foemen  land, 
For  they  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  very  sand. 
And  one  by  one  I  looked  them  in  the  face ; 
A  tear  and  smile  in  each  one  I  could  trace  ! 
"  Thieves  from  their  dens  are  these,"  some  people  said, 
And  yet  they  took  not  even  a  loaf  of  bread ! 
I  heard  them  utter  but  a  single  cry  : 
"  We  for  our  native  land  have  come  to  die  !" 
They  were  three  hundred,  they  were  young  and  strong, 
And  they  are  dead  ! 

"With  eyes  of  azure,  and  with  hair  of  gold, 
A  young  man  marched  in  front  of  them ;  and  bold 
I  made  myself,  and  having  seized  his  hand, 
Asked  him,  "  Where  goest,  fair  captain  of  the  band?" 
He  looked  at  me  and  answered,  "  Sister  mine, 
I  go  to  die  for  this  fair  land  of  thine  ! " 
I  felt  my  heart  was  trembling  through  and  through, 
Nor  could  I  say  to  him,  "  God  comfort  you  !" 
They  were  three  hundred,  they  were  young  and  strong, 
And  they  are  dead  ! 

That  morning  I  forgot  to  glean  the  grain, 
And  set  myself  to  follow  in  their  train. 
Twice  over  they  encountered  the  gens-d'armes, 
Twice  over  they  despoiled  them  of  their  arms ; 
But  when  we  came  before  Certosa's  wall 
We  heard  the  drums  beat  and  the  trumpets  call, 
And  'mid  the  smoke,  the  firing,  and  the  glare, 
More  than  a  thousand  fell  upon  them  there. 
They  were  three  hundred,  they  were  young  and  strong, 
And  they  are  dead  ! 

They  were  three  hundred,  and  they  would  not  fly ; 
They  seemed  three  thousand,  and  they  wished  to  die, 


Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems.  205 

But  wished  to  die  with  weapons  in  their  hands ; 
Before  them  ran  with  blood  the  meadow  lands. 
I  prayed  for  them,  but  ere  the  fight  was  o'er, 
Swooned  suddenly  away,  and  looked  no  more ; 
For  in  their  midst  I  could  no  more  behold 
Those  eyes  of  azure  and  that  hair  of  gold  ! 
They  were  three  hundred,  they  were  young  and  strong, 
And  they  are  dead ! 

LUIQI  MERCANTINI  (Italian). 

Translator  UNKNOWN; 


SOJYG. 

I  STOOD  upon  the  wild  seashore, 

And  marked  the  wide  expanse ; 
My  straining  eyes  were  turned  once  more 

To  long  loved,  distant  France ; 
I  saw  the  sea-bird  hurry  by 

Along  the  waters  blue  ; 
I  saw  her  wheel  amid  the  sky, 
And  mock  my  tearful,  eager  eye, 

That  would  her  flight  pursue. 

Onward  she  darts,  secure  and  free, 
And  wings  her  rapid  course  to  thee  ! 
O,  that  her  wing  were  mine,  to  soar, 
And  reach  thy  lovely  land  once  more  ! 
0  Heaven  !  it  were  enough,  to  die 

In  my  own,  my  native  home, — 
One  hour  of  blessed  liberty 

Were  worth  whole  years  to  come  ! 

CHAELES  D'ORLEANS  (French). 

Transkition  of  LOUISA  STUABT  COSTELLCX 


206  Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems. 


HTMJY. 

YE  sons  of  France,  awake  to  glory  ! 

Hark  !  hark  !  what  myriads  bid  you  rise  ! 
Your  children,  wives,  and  grandsires  hoary, — 

Behold  their  tears  and  hear  their  cries  ! 
Shall  hateful  tyrants,  mischief  breeding, 

With  hireling  hosts,  a  ruffian  band, 

Affright  and  desolate  the  land, 
While  liberty  and  peace  lie  bleeding? 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  ye  brave  ! 

The  avenging  sword  unsheathe  ! 
March  on  !  march  on  !  all  hearts  resolved 

On  victory  or  death  ! 

Now,  now,  the  dangerous  storm  is  rolling, 

Which  treacherous  kings  confederate  raise ; 
The  dogs  of  war,  let  loose,  are  howling, 

And,  lo  !  our  fields  and  cities  bla/e. 
And  shall  we  basely  view  the  ruin, 

While  lawless  Force,  with  guilty  stride, 

Spreads  desolation  far  and  wide, 
With  crimes  and  blood  his  hands  imbruing  ? 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  ye  brave  !  etc. 

With  luxury  and  pride  surrounded, 

The  bold,  insatiate  despots  dare, — 
Their  thirst  of  gold  and  power  unbounded — 

To  mete  and  vend  the  light  and  air. 
Like  beasts  of  burden  would  they  load  us, 

Like  gods  would  bid  their  slaves  adore ; 

But  man  is  man,  and  who  is  more? 
Then  shall  they  longer  lash  and  goad  us? 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  ye  brave !  etc. 


Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems.  207 

0  Liberty,  can  man  resign  thee, 

Once  having  felt  thy  generous  flame  ? 
Can  dungeons,  holts,  or  bars  confine  thee, 

Or  whips  thy  noble  spirit  tame  ? 
Too  long  the  world  has  wept,  bewailing, 

That  Falsehood's  dagger  tyrants  wield ; 

But  Freedom  is  our  sword  and  shield, 
And  all  their  arts  are  unavailing. 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  ye  brave  !  etc. 

JOSEPH  ROUGET  DE  LISLE  (French). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


SATTLE-SOJYG  OF  GUSTAYUS  Aft O I, THUS. 

BE  not  dismay'd,  thou  little  flock, 
Although  the  foe's  fierce  battle  shock, 

Loud  on  all  sides,  assail  thee. 
Though  o'er  thy  fall  they  laugh  secure, 
Their  triumph  cannot  long  endure ; 

Let  not  thy  courage  fail  thee. 

Thy  cause  is  God's — go  at  his  call, 
And  to  His  hand  commit  thy  all ; 

Fear  thou  no  ill  impending : 
His  Gideon  shall  arise  for  thee, 
God's  Word  and  people  manfully, 

In  God's  own  time,  defending. 

Our  hope  is  sure  in  Jesus'  might ; 
Against  themselves  the  godless  fight, 

Themselves,  not  us,  distressing ; 
Shame  and  contempt  their  lot  shall  be ; 
God  is  with  us,  with  Him  are  we : 

To  us  belongs  His  blessing. 

UNKNOWN  (Swedish).     Translator  UNKNOWN. 


208  Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems. 


MY  native  land,  on  thy  sweet  shore 

Lighter  heaves  the  breast ; 
Could  I  visit  thee  once  more, 

How  I  should  be  blest ! 

Heart  so  anxious  and  so  pained, 

Fitting  is  thy  woe ; 
My  native  land,  what  have  I  gained 

By  wandering  from  thee  so  1 

Fresher  green  bedecks  thy  fields, 

Fairer  blue  thy  skies ; 
Sweeter  shade  thy  forest  yields, 

Thy  dews  have  brighter  dyes. 

Thy  Sabbath-bells  a  sweeter  note 

Echo  far  and  near ; 
Thy  nightingale's  melodious  throat 

Sweeter  thrills  the  ear. 

Softer  flow  thy  lavish  streams 

Through  the  meadow's  bloom ; 
Ah  !  how  bright  the  wanderer's  dreams 

'Neath  thy  linden's  gloom  ! 

Fair  thy  sun  that  flings  around 

Genial  light  and  heat. — 
To  my  father's  household  gate 

Let  me  bend  my  feet ; 
There,  forgetting  all  the  past, 
I  will  rest  in  peace  at  last ! 

JOHANN  WILHELM  LuDWio  GiJEiM  (German). 

Translation  of  MACRAY. 


Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems.  209 


"  OLD  man,  God  bless  you !  does  your  pipe  taste  sweetly  ? 

A  beauty,  by  my  soul ! 

A  red  clay  flower-pot,  rimmed  with  gold  so  neatly  ! 
What  ask  you  for  the  bowl?" 

"  0  sir,  that  bowl  for  worlds  I  would  not  part  with ; 

A  brave  man  gave  it  me, 

Who  won  it — now  what  think  you  ? — of  a  bashaw, 
At  Belgrade's  victory. 

"  There,  sir,  ah  !  there  was  booty  worth  the  showing, — 

Long  life  to  Prince  Eugene  ! 
Like  after-grass  you  might  have  seen  us  mowing 
The  Turkish  ranks  down  clean." 

"  Another  time  I'll  hear  your  story : 

Come,  old  man,  be  no  fool ; 
Take  these  two  ducats, — gold  for  glory, — 
And  let  me  have  the  bowl !" 

"  I'm  a  poor  churl,  as  you  may  say,  sir ; 

My  pension's  all  I'm  worth : 
Yet  I'd  not  give  that  bowl  away,  sir, 
For  all  the  gold  on  earth. 

"  Just  hear  now  !     Once,  as  we  hussars,  all  merry, 

Hard  on  the  foe's  rear  pressed, 
A  blundering  rascal  of  a  janizary 

Shot  through  our  captain's  breast. 

"  At  once  across  my  horse  I  hove  him, — 
The  same  would  he  have  done, — 
And  from  the  smoke  and  tumult  drove  him 

Safe  to  a  nobleman. 
18 


210  Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems. 

"  I  nursed  him ;  and,  before  his  end,  bequeathing 

His  money  and  this  bowl 

To  me,  he  pressed  my  hand,  just  ceased  his  breathing, 
And  so  he  died,  brave  soul ! 

"  The  money  thou  must  give  mine  host, — so  thought  I,- 

Three  plunderings  suffered  he ; 
And  in  remembrance  of  my  old  friend,  brought  I 
The  pipe  away  with  me. 

"  Henceforth  in  all  campaigns  with  me  I  bore  it, 

In  flight  or  in  pursuit ; 
It  was  a  holy  thing,  sir,  and  I  wore  it 
Safe-sheltered  in  my  boot. 

"  This  very  limb,  I  lost  it  by  a  shot,  sir, 

Under  the  walls  of  Prague  : 
First  at  my  precious  pipe,  be  sure,  I  caught,  sir, 
And  then  picked  up  my  leg." 

"  You  move  me  even  to  tears,  old  Sire : 
What  was  the  brave  man's  name  ? 
Tell  me,  that  I,  too,  may  admire 
And  venerate  his  fame." 

"  They  called  him  only  the  brave  Walter ; 

His  farm  lay  near  the  Ehine." 
"God  bless  your  old  eyes  !  'twas  my  father, 
And  that  same  farm  is  mine. 

"  Come,  friend,  you've  seen  some  stormy  weather ; 

With  me  is  now  your  bed  ; 
We'll  drink  of  Walter's  grapes  together, 
And  eat  of  Walter's  bread." 


Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems.  211 

"  Now — done  !  I  march  in,  then,  to-morrow : 

You're  his  true  heir,  I  see ; 
And  when  I  die,  your  thanks,  kind  master, 
The  Turkish  pipe  shall  be." 

GOTTLIEB  CONRAD  PFEFFEL  (German). 

Translation  of  C.  T.  BROOKS. 

THE  GERMAN'S  FATHE'RZAJY?). 

WHICH  is  the  German's  fatherland  ? 

Is  't  Prussia's  or  Swabia's  land  1 

Is  't  where  the  Khine's  rich  vintage  streams  1 

Or  where  the  Northern  sea-gull  screams  ? — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no  ! 
His  fatherland  's  not  bounded  so  ! 

Which  is  the  German's  fatherland  ? 
Bavaria's  or  Styria's  land  ? 
Is  't  where  the  Marsian  ox  unbends  1 
Or  where  the  Marksman  iron  rends  ? — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no  ! 
His  fatherland  's  not  bounded  so  ! 

Which  is  the  German's  fatherland  ? 
Pomerania's,  or  Westphalia's  land  ? 
Is  it  where  sweep  the  Dunian  waves  ? 
Or  where  the  thundering  Danube  raves  ? — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no  ! 
His  fatherland  's  not  bounded  so ! 

Which  is  the  German's  fatherland  1 

O,  tell  me  now  the  famous  land ! 

Is  't  Tyrol,  or  the  land  of  Tell? 

Such  lands  and  people  please  me  well. — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no  ! 
His  fatherland  's  not  bounded  so  ! 


212  Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems. 

Which  is  the  German's  fatherland? 
Come,  tell  me  now  the  famous  land. 
Doubtless,  it  is  the  Austrian  state, 
In  honors  and  in  triumphs  great. — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no  ! 
His  fatherland  's  not  bounded  so  ! 

Which  is  the  German's  fatherland  ? 

So  tell  me  now  the  famous  land  ! 

Is  't  what  the  Princes  won  by  sleight 

From  the  Emperor's  and  Empire's  right  ? — 

Ah  no,  no,  no  ! 
His  fatherland  's  not  bounded  so  ! 

Which  is  the  German's  fatherland  ? 
So  tell  me  now  at  last  the  land  ! — 
As  far  's  the  German  accent  rings 
And  hymns  to  God  in  Heaven  sings, — 

That  is  the  land, — 
There,  brother,  is  thy  fatherland  ! 

There  is  the  German's  fatherland, 
Where  oaths  attest  the  grasped  hand, — 
Where  truth  beams  from  the  sparkling  eyes, 
And  in  the  heart  love  warmly  lies ; — 

That  is  the  land, — 
There,  brother,  is  thy  fatherland  ! 

That  is  the  German's  fatherland, 
Where  wrath  pursues  the  foreign  band, — 
Where  every  Frank  is  held  a  foe, 
And  Germans  all  as  brothers  glow ; — 

That  is  the  land, — 
All  Germany  's  thy  fatherland  ! 

ERNST  MORITZ  ARNDT  (German). 

Translation  of  MACRAY. 


Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems.  213 


TWO 

To  France  were  travelling  two  grenadiers, 

Who  had  fought  with  the  Russian  Suwarrow ; 

And  when  they  came  to  the  German  frontiers, 
They  hung  down  their  heads  in  sorrow. 

There  came  the  heart-breaking  news  to  their  ears, 
That  France  was  by  fortune  forsaken ; 

Scattered  and  slain  were  her  brave  grenadiers, 
And  Napoleon,  Napoleon  was  taken. 

Then  wept  together  those  two  grenadiers 
O'er  their  country's  departed  glory ; 

"  Woe's  me  ! "  said  one,  in  the  midst  of  his  tears, 
"  My  old  wound— how  it  burns  at  the  story !" 

The  other  said,  "The  end  has  come, 

What  avails  any  longer  living? 
Yet  have  I  a  wife  and  child  at  home, 

For  an  absent  father  grieving. 

"  What  is  my  wife  ?     What  is  my  child  ? 

Dearer  thoughts  in  my  bosom  awaken ; 
Go  beg,  wife  and  child,  when  with  hunger  wild, 

For  Napoleon,  Napoleon  is  taken. 

"  0  grant  me,  brother,  my  only  prayer, 
When  in  death  my  eyes  are  closing ; 

Take  me  to  France,  and  bury  me  there ; 
In  France  be  my  ashes  reposing. 

"  This  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  bright, 
Let  it  lie  near  my  heart — upon  me ; 

Give  me  my  musket  in  my  hand, 
And  buckle  my  sabre  on  me. 


214  Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems. 

"  So  will  I  lie,  and  arise  no  more, 

My  watch  like  a  sentinel  keeping ; 
Till  I  hear  the  cannon's  thundering  roar, 

And  the  squadrons  above  me  sweeping. 

"  Then  the  Emperor  comes  !  and  his  banners  wave 

With  their  eagles  o'er  him  bending ; 
And  I  will  come  forth,  all  in  arms,  from  my  grave, 

Napoleon,  Napoleon,  attending." 

HEINRICH  HEINE  (German). 

Translation  of  W.  H.  FURNESS. 


KING  CHftlSTIAJY. 

KING  CHRISTIAN  stood  by  the  lofty  mast 

In  mist  and  smoke ; 
His  sword  was  hammering  so  fast, 
Through  Gothic  helm  and  brain  it  passed ; 
Then  sank  each  hostile  hulk  and  mast 

In  mist  and  smoke. 

"Fly  !"  shouted  they,  "fly,  he  who  can  ! 
Who  braves  of  Denmark's  Christian 

The  stroke  ?" 

Nils  Juel  gave  heed  to  the  tempest's  roar ; 

Now  is  the  hour  ! 

He  hoisted  his  blood-red  flag  once  more, 
And  smote  upon  the  foe  full  sore, 
And  shouted  loud,  through  the  tempest's  roar, 

•'  Now  is  the  hour ! " 
"  Fly  !"  shouted  they,  "  for  shelter  fly  ! 
Of  Denmark's  Juel  who  can  defy 

The  power?" 


Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems.  215 

North  Sea  !  a  glimpse  of  Wessel  rent 

Thy  murky  sky ! 

Then  champions  to  thine  arms  were  sent ; 
Terror  and  Death  glared  where  he  went ; 
From  the  waves  was  heard  a  wail  that  rent 

Thy  murky  sky ! 

From  Denmark  thunders  Tordenskiol'; 
Let  each  to  Heaven  commend  his  soul, 

And  fly! 

Path  of  the  Dane  to  fame  and  might ! 

Dark-rolling  wave  ! 

Receive  thy  friend,  who,  scorning  flight, 
Goes  to  meet  danger  with  despite, 
Proudly  as  thou  the  tempest's  might, 

Dark-rolling  wave ! 
And,  amid  pleasures  and  alarms, 
And  war  and  victory,  be  thine  arms 

My  grave ! 

JOHANNES  EVALD  (Danish). 

Translation  of  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


THE 


0,  GREAT  was  Denmark's  land  in  time  of  old  ! 

Wide  to  the  South  her  branch  of  glory  spread  ; 
Fierce  to  the  battle  rushed  her  heroes  bold, 

Eager  to  join  the  revels  of  the  dead  ; 
While  the  fond  maiden  flew  with  smiles  to  fold 

Round  her  returning  warrior's  vesture  red 
Her  arm  of  snow,  with  nobler  passion  fired, 
When  to  the  breast  of  love,  exhausted,  he  retired. 


216  Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems. 

Nor  bore  they  only  to  the  field  of  death 

The  bossy  buckler  and  the  spear  of  fire ; 
The  bard  was  there,  with  spirit-stirring  breath, 

His  bold  heart  quivering  as  he  swept  the  wire, 
And  poured  his  notes,  amidst  the  ensanguined  heath, 

While  panting  thousands  kindled  at  his  lyre ; 
Then  shone  the  eye  with  greater  fury  fired, 
Then  clashed  the  glittering  mail,  and  the  proud  foe  retired. 

And  when  the  memorable  day  was  past, 

And  Thor  triumphant  on  his  people  smiled, 
The  actions  died  not  with  the  day  they  graced ; 

The  bard  embalmed  them  in  his  descant  wild, 
And  their  hymned  names,  through  ages  uneffaced, 

The  weary  hours  of  future  Danes  beguiled : 
When  even  their  snowy  bones  had  mouldered  long, 

On  the  high  column  lived  the  imperishable  song. 

And  the  impetuous  harp  resounded  high 
With  feats  of  hardiment  done  far  and  wide, 

While  the  bard  soothed  with  festive  minstrelsy 
The  chiefs,  reposing  after  battle-tide  : 

Nor  would  stern  themes  alone  his  hand  employ ; 
He  sang  the  virgin's  sweetly  tempered  pride, 

And  hoary  eld,  and  woman's  gentle  cheer, 

And  Denmark's  manly  hearts,  to  love  and  friendship  dear. 

ADAM  GOTTLOB  OEHLENSCHLAGER  (Danish). 

Translation  of  WALKER. 


TO  MT 

THOU  spot  of  earth,  where  from  the  breast  of  woe 
My  eye  first  rose,  and  in  the  purple  glow 
Of  morning,  and  the  dewy  smile  of  love, 
Marked  the  first  gleamings  of  the  Power  above  : 


Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems.  217 

Where,  wondering  at  its  birth,  my  spirit  rose, 
Called  forth  from  nothing  by  his  word  sublime, 

To  run  its  mighty  race  of  joys  and  woes, 
The  proud  coeval  of  immortal  time : 

Thou  spot  unequalled !  where  the  thousand  lyres 
Of  Spring  first  met  me  on  her  balmy  gale, 

And  my  rapt  fancy  heard  celestial  choirs 
In  the  wild  wood-notes  and  my  mother's  tale : 

Where  my  first  trembling  accents  were  addressed 

To  lisp  the  dear,  the  unforgotten  name, 
And,  clasped  to  mild  affection's  throbbing  breast, 

My  spirit  caught  from  her  the  kindling  flame : 

My  country  !  have  I  found  a  spot  of  joy, 

Through  the  wide  precincts  of  the  chequered  earth, 
So  calm,  so  sweet,  so  guiltless  of  alloy, 
As  thou  art  to  his  soul,  whose  best  employ 
Is  to  recall  the  joys  that  blessed  his  birth? 

O,  nowhere  blooms  so  bright  the  summer  rose, 
As  where  youth  cropt  it  from  the  valley's  breast ! 

O,  nowhere  are  the  downs  so  soft  as  those 
That  pillowed  infancy's  unbroken  rest ! 

In  vain  the  partial  sun  on  other  vales 

Pours  liberal  down  a  more  exhaustless  ray, 

And  vermeil  fruits,  that  blush  along  their  dales, 
Mock  the  pale  products  of  our  scanty  day ; 

In  vain,  far  distant  from  the  land  we  love, 

The  world's  green  breast  soars  higher  to  the  sky : 

0,  what  were  Heaven  itself,  if  lost  above 
Were  the  dear  memory  of  departed  joy  ? 
19 


218  Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems. 

Range  ocean,  melt  in  amorous  forests  dim, 

O'er  icy  peaks  with  sacred  horror  bend, 
View  life  in  thousand  forms,  and  hear  the  hymn 

Of  love  and  joy  from  thousand  hearts  ascend, 
And  trace  each  blessing,  where  round  freedom's  shrine 
Pure  faith  and  equal  laws  their  shadows  twine  : 

Yet,  wheresoe'er  thou  roam'st,  to  lovelier  things 
With  mingled  joy  and  grief  thy  spirit  springs ; 
And  all  bright  Arno's  pastoral  lays  of  love 
Yield  to  the  sports,  where  through  the  tangling  grove 
The  mimic  falcon  chased  the  little  dove. 

0,  what  are  Eloisa's  bowers  of  cost, 

Matched  with  the  bush  where,  hid  in  berries  white, 

Mine  arms  around  my  infant  love  were  crossed  ? 
What  Jura's  peak,  to  that  upon  whose  height 
I  strove  to  grasp  the  moon,  and  where  the  flight 

Of  my  first  thought  was  in  my  Maker  lost  ? 

No  !  here, — but  here, — in  'this  lone  paradise, 
Which  Frederic,  like  the  peaceful  angel,  gilds, 

Where  my  loved  brethren  mix  in  social  ties, 

From  Norway's  rocks  to  Holstein's  golden  fields  • 

0  Denmark  !  in  thy  quiet  lap  reclined, 
The  dazzing  joys  of  varied  earth  forgot, 

1  find  the  peace  I  strove  in  vain  to  find, 

The  peace  I  never  found  where  thou  wert  not 

The  countless  wonders  of  my  devious  youth, 
The  forms  of  early  love  and  early  truth, 

Eise  on  my  view,  in  memory's  colors  dressed ; 
And  each  lost  angel  smiles  more  lovingly, 
Aud  every  star  that  cheered  my  early  sky 

Shines  fairer  in  this  happy  port  of  rest ! 

JENS  BAGGESEN  (Danish).    Translation  of  WILLIAM  S.  WALKEB. 


Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems.  219 


THE  WISHES. 

ALL  hail,  them  new  year,  that,  apparelled  in  sweetness, 

Now  spring'st  like  a  youth  from  eternity's  breast ! 
O,  say,  dost  thou  come  from  the  bright  throne  of  greatness, 

Our  herald  of  mercy,  of  gladness,  and  rest  ? 
Cheer  the  heart  of  our  king  with  benignity's  token ; 

Light  his  soul  with  the  sunbeam  that  sets  not  above ; 
Be  his  sword  unresisted,  his  sceptre  unbroken ; 

0,  peace  be  to  Christian,  the  monarch  we  love ! 

With  an  emerald  zone  bind  the  rocks  of  the  North ; 

O'er  Denmark's  green  vales  spread  a  buckler  of  gold ; 
Pour  the  glories  of  harvest  unsparingly  forth, 

And  show  that  our  wealth  is  our  dear  native  mould  : 
Smile  on  the  conqueror  of  ocean,  who  urges, 

Through  darkness  and  tempests,  his  blue  path  to  fame ; 
May  the  sea  spare  her  hero,  and  waft  on  her  surges 

Blessings  and  peace  to  the  land  whence  he  came : 

Round  the  forehead  of  Art  twine  the  wreath  that  she  loves, 

And  harden  to  labor  the  sinews  of  Youth ; 
With  a  hedge  of  stout  hearts  guard  our  Eden's  fair  groves, 

And  temper  their  valor  with  mercy  and  truth  : 
Bless  him,  to  whom  Heaven  its  bright  flame  commendeth, 

And  shadow  his  couch  with  the  folds  of  thy  love ; 
Give  light  to  our  judges, — the  heart  that  ne'er  bendeth, — 

Inspirit  our  bards,  and  our  teachers  approve. 

0,  blest  be  the  firm-hearted  hero,  who  weaves  not 
A  thought  or  a  wish  but  his  spirit  may  own  ! 

0,  shame  on  the  cold  son  of  interest,  who  cleaves  not 
To  the  heart  of  his  country,  and  loves  her  alone  ! 


220  Patriotic  and  Historical  Poems. 

Be  her  welfare  our  glory,  our  joy,  our  devotion  ; 

Unchilled  be  her  valor,  her  worth  undecayed  ; 
May  her  friends  on  her  fields  gaze  with  rapture's  emotion  ; 

May  she  long  love  the  stranger,  but  ask  not  his  aid  ! 

JOHANNES  EVALD  (Danish). 

Translation  of  WILLIAM  S.  WALKER. 


SLAIJV. 

I  FOUGHT,  my  land,  for  thee  !  for  thee  I  fell  ; 

On,  not  beneath  the  turf  I  rest  my  head. 
Witness,  my  country  !  that  I  loved  thee  well  ; 

Living,  I  served  thee,  —  and  I  guard  thee  dead. 

JOHN  GAWINSKI  (Polish). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWRINO. 


SLAVONIA  !  glory-breathing  name,  surrounded 

With  mingling  mists  of  pleasure  and  of  pain : 

Now  torn  by  sorrow,  now  by  treachery  wounded, 

Now  breaking  into  light  and  strength  again. 

From  the  Karpathian  to  the  Ural  brows, 

From  sandy  wastes  that  wake  the  summer's  heat, 

To  where  its  ray  falls  powerless  on  the  snows, 

Thou  art  enshrin'd  in  thy  majestic  seat ! 

Thou  hast  o'erliv'd  misfortune,  hast  withstood  • 

The  idol  worship  of  the  nations  round, 

E'en  thy  own  children's  black  ingratitude ; 

And  thou  hast  rear'd  thee,  on  the  eternal  ground, 

A  temple  from  the  ruins  of  old  time, 

Whence  thou  pour'st  forth  thine  energies  sublime. 

JOHN  KOLLAB  (Bohemian). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWRINO. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


ON  A  VIRGIN    OF   MITTLENE,  WHO  DIED  ON  HER  WEDDING-DAY. 

THE  virgin  Myrtis'  sepulchre  am  I ; 

Creep  softly  to  the  pillow'd  mound  of  woe  : 
And  whisper  to  the  grave,  in  earth  below, 

"  Grave  !  thou  art  envious  in  thy  cruelty  ! " 
To  thee,  now  gazing  here,  her  barb'rous  fate 

These  bride's  adornments  tell ;  that,  with  the  fire 
Of  Hymen's  torch,  which  led  her  to  the  gate, 

Her  husband  burn'd  the  maid  upon  her  pyre : 
Yes  Hymen !  thou  didst  change  the  marriage  song 
To  the  shrill  wailing  of  the  mourner's  throng. 

BRINK  A  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


YOUTH 


WHAT  were  life,  and  where  its  treasure, 
Golden  Venus,  wert  thou  flown? 

Ne'er  may  I  outlive  the  pleasure 
Given  to  man  by  thee  alone,  — 
Honied  gifts  and  secret  love, 
Joys  all  other  joys  above. 


222  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

Quickly,  stripling  !  quickly,  maiden  ! 

Snatch  life's  blossoms  ere  they  fall ; 
Age,  with  hate  and  sorrow  laden, 

Soon  draws  nigh  to  level  all, — 

Makes  the  man  of  comeliest  mien, 

Like  the  most  ill-favored  seen. 

Youth  and  grace  his  path  declining, 

Gloomy  thoughts  his  bosom  tear ; 
Seems  the  sun,  in  glory  shining, 

Now  to  him  no  longer  fair, — 

Joys  no  more  his  soul  engage, 

Such  the  power  of  dreary  age, 

MIMNERMCS  (Greek) 

Translation  of  H.  N.  COLERIDGE. 


T&OC&SSIOJV. 

BEFORE  the  regal  chariot,  as  it  passed, 

Were  bright  Cydonian  apples  scattered  round, 

And  myrtle  leaves,  in  showers  of  fragrance  cast, 
And  many  a  wreath  was  there  with  roses  bound, 

And  many  a  coronal,  wherein  were  set, 

Like  gems,  rich  rows  of  purple  violet. 

STESICHORUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


LET  not  a  death,  unwept,  unhonor'd,  be 
The  melancholy  fate  allotted  me  ! 
But  those  who  loved  me  living,  when  I  die, 
Still  fondly  keep  some  cherish'd  memory. 

SOLON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  223 


SOJVG. 

Jove  descends  in  sleet  and  snow, 

Howls  the  vexed  and  angry  deep ; 
Every  stream  forgets  to  flow, 

Bound  in  winter's  icy  sleep. 
Ocean  wave  and  forest  hoar 
To  the  blast  responsive  roar. 

Drive  the  tempest  from  your  door, 

Blaze  on  blaze,  your  hearthstone  piling, 

And  unmeasured  goblets  pour, 
Brimful  high  with  nectar  smiling. 

Then  beneath  your  poet's  head 

Be  a  downy  pillow  spread. 

ALCAEUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  3.  H.  MERIT  ALE. 


To  all  that  breathe  the  air  of  Heaven 
Some  boon  of  strength  has  Nature  given. 
In  forming  the  majestic  bull, 
She  fenced  with  wreathed  horns  his  skull ; 
A  hoof  of  strength  she  lent  the  steed, 
And  winged  the  timorous  hare  with  speed ; 
She  gave  the  lion  fangs  of  terror, 
And  o'er  the  ocean's  crystal  mirror 
Taught  the  unnumbered  scaly  throng 
To  trace  the  liquid  path  along ; 
While  for  the  umbrage  of  the  grove 
She  plumed  the  warbling  world  of  love. 
To  man  she  gave,  in  that  proud  hour, 
The  boon  of  intellectual  power ; 


224  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

Then  what,  O  woman,  what  for  thee 
Was  left  in  Nature's  treasury  ? 
She  gave  thee  beauty — mightier  far 
Than  all  the  pomp  and  power  of  war. 
Nor  steel,  nor  fire  itself  hath  power 
Like  woman  in  her  conquering  hour : 
Be  thou  but  fair, — mankind  adore  thee  ! 
Smile, — and  a  world  is  weak  before  thee ! 

AUACREON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  THOMAS  MOORE. 


TWO  MILITANT 

BOAST  me  not  your  valiant  captain, 

Strutting  fierce  with  measur'd  stride, 
Glorying  in  his  well-trimm'd  beard,  and 

Wavy  ringlets'  clustered  pride. 
Mine  be  he  that's  short  of  stature, 

Firm  of  foot,  with  curved  knee ; 
Heart  of  oak  in  limb  and  feature, 

And  of  courage  bold  and  free. 

ABCHILOCHCS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIT  ALE. 


INNUMEROUS  are  the  boons  bestowed 

On  man  by  gracious  Peace  ! 
The  flowers  of  poets  honey-tongued, 

And  wealth's  immense  increase. 
Then  from  the  joyous  altars 

Unto  the  gods  arise 
The  fumes  of  sheep's  and  oxen's  flesh 

In  ruddy  sacrifice : 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  225 

In  crowds  to  the  gymnasium. 

The  strenuous  youth  resort, 
Or  to  the  pipe  blithe  revellers 

Pursue  their  maddening  sport  ; 
The  spider  black  doth  weave  his  net 

In  the  iron-handled  shield, 
And  sharp-set  spear  and  two-edged  sword 

To  mouldy  canker  yield  ; 
No  longer  anywhere  is  heard 

The  trumpet's  blazen  blare, 
From  men's  eyes  soul-delighting  sleep 

At  midnight  sent  to  scare  ; 
Banquets,  heap'd  high  with  food  and  wine, 

Are  spread  in  every  street, 
And  songs  from  youthful  companies 

Are  sounding  strong  and  sweet. 

BACCHYLIDES  (Greek). 

Translation  of  ROBERT  BLAND. 


TOVTH  AJV®  AGE. 

AH  me  !  alike  o'er  youth  and  age  I  sigh, 
Impending  age,  and  youth  that  hastens  by  ; 
Swift  as  a  thought  the  flowing  moments  roll, 
Swift  as  a  racer  speeds  to  reach  the  goaL 
How  rich,  how  happy  the  contented  guest, 
Who  leaves  the  banquet  soon,  and  sinks  to  rest. 
Damps  chill  my  brow,  my  pulses  flutt'ring  beat, 
Whene'er  the  vigorous  pride  of  youth  I  meet 
Pleasant  and  lovely  ;  hopeful  to  the  view 
As  golden  visions,  and  as  transient  too  : 
But  ah  !  no  terrors  stop,  nor  vows,  nor  tears 
Life's  mournful  evening,  and  the  gloom  of  years. 

THEOGNIS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  ROBERT  BLAND. 


226  Poems  of  Sentiment. 


ON  A  B'ROTHEft  AJV2)  SISTJZft. 

WE  buried  him  at  dawn  of  day  : 
Ere  set  of  sun  his  sister  lay 

Self-slaughter'd  by  his  side. 
Poor  Basile  !  she  could  not  bear 
Longer  to  breathe  the  vital  air, 
When  Melanippus  died. 

Thus  in  one  fatal  hour  was  left, 
Of  both  a  parent's  hopes  bereft, 

Their  desolated  sire ; 
While  all  Gyrene  mourned  to  see 
The  blossoms  of  her  stateliest  tree 

By  one  fell  blight  expire. 

CALLIMACHUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  3.  H.  MERIVALE. 


HYMN  TO 

O  SOUGHT  with  toil  and  mortal  strife 

By  those  of  human  birth, 
Virtue,  thou  noblest  end  of  life, 

Thou  goodliest  gain  on  earth  ! 
Thee,  Maid,  to  win,  our  youth  would  bear, 
Unwearied,  fiery  pains  ;  and  dare 

Death  for  thy  beauty's  worth  ; 
So  bright  thy  proffered  honors  shine, 
Like  clusters  of  a  fruit  divine. 

Sweeter  than  slumber's  boasted  joys, 

And  more  desired  than  gold, 
Dearer  than  nature's  dearest  ties : — 

For  thee  those  heroes  old, 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  227 

Herculean  son  of  highest  Jove, 
And  the  twin-birth  of  Leda,  strove 

By  perils  manifold ; 
Great  Peleus'  son,  with  like  desire, 
And  Ajax  sought  the  Stygian  fire. 

The  bard  shall  crown  with  lasting  lay, 

And  age  immortal  make 
Atarnea's  sovereign,  'reft  of  day 

For  thy  dear  beauty's  sake  : 
Him,  therefore,  the  recording  Nine 
In  songs  extol  to  heights  divine, 

And  every  chord  awake ; 
Promoting  still,  with  reverence  due, 
The  meed  of  friendship  tried  and  true. 

ARISTOTLE  (Greek), 

Translation  of  3.  H.  MEBIVALE. 

TO  JBEAZTIT. 

HEALTH,  brightest  of  the  blest,  do  thou 

To  my  poor  hearth  descend  ! 
For  what  of  life  kind  Heaven  allow, 

Be  thou  my  guest  and  friend  ! 
For  every  joy  that  fortune  brings, 
All  that  from  wealth  or  children  springs, 
From  courtly  show  or  sovereign  sway, 
Lifting  to  gods  us  things  of  clay, 
From  love,  or  love's  enchanting  wiles, 
From  labor's  pause,  or  pleasure's  smiles, — 
With  thee  they  blossom,  Health  divine ; 
Their  spring,  their  beauty,  all  is  thine  ; 
And  none — save  thou  thy  smile  bestow — 
May  taste  of  happiness  below. 

ARIPHBON  (Greek).    Translation  of  ROBERT  BLAND. 


228  Poems  of  Sentiment. 


ON  A  SOsiT. 

THEY  say  that  I  am  small  and  frail, 

And  cannot  live  in  stormy  seas : — 
It  may  be  so ;  yet  every  sail 

Makes  shipwreck  in  the  swelling  breeze : 
Nor  strength  nor  size  can  then  hold  fast, 

But  fortune's  favor,  Heaven's  decree  : — 
Let  others  trust  in  oar  and  mast, 

But  may  the  gods  take  care  of  me  : 

LEONIDAS  OF  TARENTUM  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


OJV  TEAKS. 

Be  temperate  in  grief !  I  would  not  hide 
The  starting  tear-drop  with  a  Stoic's  pride, 
I  would  not  bid  the  o'erburthen'd  heart  be  still, 
And  outrage  Nature,  with  contempt  of  ill. 
Weep ;  but  not  loudly  !     He  whose  stony  eyes 
Ne'er  melt  in  tears  is  hated  by  the  skies. 

EUPHORION  (Greek). 

Translation  of  3.  H.  MERIVALE. 


OJV 

THRICE  happy  they  whose  friendly  hearts  can  burn 
With  purest  flame,  and  meet  a  kind  return. 
With  dear  Pirithous,  as  poets  tell, 
Theseus  was  happy  in  the  shades  of  hell : 
Orestes'  soul  no  fears,  no  woes  deprest ; 
'Midst  Scythians  he  with  Pylades  was  blest. 

BION  (Greek). 

Translation  of  F.  FAWKES. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  229 


OJV  OWE   WHO   2)IE3)   IJ\T  A   FOftEIGJY 
COUNTRY. 

GRIEVE  not,  Philoenas,  though  condemned  to  die 

Far  from  thy  parent  soil  and  native  sky ; 

Though  strangers'  hands  must  raise  thy  funeral  pile, 

And  lay  thine  ashes  in  a  foreign  isle : 

To  all,  on  death's  last  dreary  journey  bound, 

The  road  is  equal,  and  alike  the  ground. 

TYMNES  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


FRAGMENT. 

THERE  is  a  certain  hospitable  air 

In  a  friend's  house,  that  tells  me  I  am  welcome ; 

The  porter  opens  to  me  with  a  smile ; 

The  yard-dog  wags  his  tail,  the  servant  runs, 

Beats  up  the  cushion,  spreads  the  couch,  and  says — 

Sit  down,  good  sir !  ere  I  can  say  I'm  weary. 

APOLLODORUS  OF  CARYSTUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  RICHARD  CUMBERLAND. 


OJV  THE  PICTURE  OF  AJY  KYFAJYT 
IJVG  JVJSA'R  A 


WHILE  on  the  cliff  with  calm  delight  she  kneels, 
And  the  blue  vales  a  thousand  joys  recall, 

See,  to  the  last,  last  verge  her  infant  steals  ! 
O  fly—  yet  stir  not,  speak  not,  lest  it  fall.  — 

Far  better  taught,  she  lays  her  bosom  bare, 

And  the  fond  boy  springs  back  to  nestle  there. 

LEONIDAS  OF  ALEXANDRIA  (Greek). 

Translation  of  S.  ROGERS. 


230  Poems  of  Sentiment. 


I  HAVE  a  child — a  lovely  one — 
In  beauty  like  the  golden  sun, 
Or  like  sweet  flowers,  of  earliest  bloom, 
And  Cleis  is  her  name  : — for  whom 
I  Lydia's  treasures,  were  they  mine, 
Would  glad  resign. 

SAPPHO  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


THE  n&GIJY'S  OFFERING   TO 

A  SHELL,  Zephyritis,  is  all  that  I  am, 
First  fruits  from  Selena  to  thee. 

Time  was,  that  a  nautilus  gaily  I  swam, 
And  steer'd  my  light  bark  on  the  sea. 


.Then  hoisting  my  own  little  yards  and  my  sail, 

I  swam  the  soft  breeze  as  it  came, 
And  rowed  with  my  feet,  if  a  calm  did  prevail, 

And  thus,  Cypris,  got  I  my  name. 

But  cast  by  the  waves  on  the  liilian  shore, 

I  am  sent  for  a  plaything  to  thee, 
Now  lifeless  ;  —  the  sea-loving  halcyon  no  more 

Shall  brood  on  the  waters  for  me. 

Arsinbe  !  oh,  may  all  grace  from  thy  hand 

On  Clinias'  daughter  alight  ; 
From  Smyrna  she  sends  in  folia's  land, 

And  sweet  be  her  gift  in  thy  sight. 

CAIXIMACHUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  S.  TREVOR. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  231 


OJY  TEAKS. 

IP  tears  could  medicine  human  ills,  and  give 
The  o'ercharged  heart  a  sweet  restorative, 
Gold,  jewels,  splendor,  all  we  reckon  dear, 
Were  mean  and  worthless  to  a  single  tear. 
But  ah !  nor  treasures  bribe,  nor  raining  eyes, 
Our  firm  inexorable  destinies  : — 
Weep  we  or  not,  as  sun  succeeds  to  sun, 
In  the  same  course  our  fates  unpitying  run. 
Tears  yet  are  ours,  whene'er  misfortunes  press, 
And  though  our  weeping  fails  to  give  redress, 
Long  as  their  fruits  the  changing  seasons  bring, 
Those  bitter  drops  will  flow  from  Sorrow's  spring. 

PHILEMON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  ROBERT  BLAND. 


YE  gods  !  how  easily  the  good  man  bears 

His  cumbrous  honors  of  increasing  years. 

Age,  0  my  father,  is  not,  as  they  say, 

A  load  of  evils  heap'd  on  mortal  clay, 

Unless  impatient  folly  aids  the  curse 

And  weak  lamenting  makes  our  sorrows  worse. 

He  whose  soft  soul,  whose  temper  ever  even, 

Whose  habits  placid  as  a  cloudless  heaven, 

Approve  the  partial  blessings  of  the  sky, 

Smooths  the  rough  road  and  walks  untroubled  by ; 

Untimely  wrinkles  furrow  not  his  brow, 

And  graceful  wave  his  locks  of  reverend  snow. 

ANAXANDRIDES  (Greek). 

Translation  of  3.  H.  MERIVALE. 


232  Poems  of  Sentiment. 


TJ3J?  CHOftUS  IJV  AZCESTIS. 

WE  will  not  look  on  her  burial  sod 

As  the  cell  of  supulchral  sleep : 
It  shall  be  as  the  shrine  of  a  radiant  god, 
And  the  pilgrim  shall  visit  that  blest  abode, 

To  worship  and  not  to  weep. 
And  as  he  turns  his  steps  aside, 

Thus  shall  he  breathe  his  vow — 
Here  slept  a  self-devoted  bride ; 
Of  old,  to  save  her  lord  she  died, 

She  is  a  spirit  now. 

EUBIPIDES  (Greek). 

Translation  of  CHAPMAN. 


SOME. 

CLING  to  thy  home  !  if  there  the  meanest  shed 
Yield  thee  a  hearth,  and  shelter  for  thy  head, 
And  some  poor  plot,  with  vegetables  stor'd, 
Be  all  that  Heaven  allots  thee  for  thy  board — 
Unsavory  bread,  and  herbs  that  scattered  grow 
Wild  on  the  river-brink  or  mountain-brow, 
Yet  e'en  this  cheerless  mansion  shall  provide 
More  heart's  repose  than  all  the  world  beside. 

LEONIDAS  OP  TAHENTUM  (Greek). 

Translation  of  ROBERT  BLAND. 


COMTA2ZE2)   WITH  FLOWERS. 

'Tis  now  that  the  white  violet 

Steals  out  the  Spring  to  greet, 
And  that,  among  his  longed-for  showers, 

Narcissus  smiles  so  sweet ; 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  233 

'Tis  now  that  lilies,  upland-born, 

Frequent  the  slopes  of  green, 
And  that  the  flower  which  lovers  love, 

Of  all  the  flowers  the  queen, 
Without  an  equal  anywhere, 

In  full-blown  beauty  glows — 
Thou  know'st  it  well,  Zenophile  ! 

Persuasion's  flower,  the  rose  ! 
Ah,  why,  ye  hills  and  meadows, 

Should  laughter  thus  illume 
Your  leafy  haunts '{     So  lavish  why, 

And  prodigal  of  bloom  ? 
Not  all  the  wreaths  of  all  the  flowers 

That  Spring  herself  might  cull, 
As  mine  own  maiden  e'er  could  be 

One  half  so  beautiful ! 

MELEAOEE  (Greek). 

Translation  of  JOHN  WILSON. 


OFT  am  I  by  the  women  told, 

"  Poor  Anacreon  !  thou  grow'st  old ; 

Look  !  how  thy  hairs  are  falling  all ; 

Poor  Anacreon,  how  they  fall ! " — 

Whether  I  grow  old  or  no, 

By  the  effects  I  do  not  know ; 

But  this  I  know,  without  being  told, 

'Tis  time  to  live,  if  I  grow  old ; 

'Tis  time  short  pleasures  now  to  take, 

Of  little  life  the  best  to  make, 

And  manage  wisely  the  last  stake. 

ANACREON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 


20 


234  Poems  of  Sentiment. 


A  FRESH  garland  will  I  braid 

Of  lilies  blithe  and  fair, 
Of  the  hyacinth's  blue  shade, 

And  the  crocus'  golden  hair, 
Of  narcissus  dewy-bright, 

Of  myrtle,  never  sere, 
With  the  violet  virgin  white, 

And  sweet  rose  to  lovers  dear. — 

Thus,  for  Heliodora's  hair, 

Freshest,  fairest  flowers  I've  twined, 
But  none  half  so  sweet,  so  fair, 

As  the  dear,  dear  locks  they'll  bind, 

MELEAOER  (Greek). 

Translation  of  W.  PETER. 


THE  G Aft  LAN®. 

A  WREATH  to  thee,  my  Rhodoclee, 

Twined  by  these  hands,  I  send, 
"Where  the  lily's  snow,  and  the  rose-cup's  glow, 

In  rival  beauty  blend ; 
Where  the  violet's  hue  of  freshest  blue 

With  jonquil  pale  you  see, 
And,  fragrant  yet  with  morning  dew, 

The  soft  anemone. 
Then  wear  them,  love ;  but  not  elate, 

For  soon  such  charms  are  flown ; 
And  in  the  flowerets'  changing  fate 

Thou  dost  but  read  thine  own. 

BUFINUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  W.  PETER. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  235 


THOU  art  not  dead,  my  Prote,  though  no  more 
A  sojourner  on  earth's  tempestuous  shore ; 
Fled  to  the  peaceful  islands  of  the  blest, 
Where  youth  and  love,  forever  beaming,  rest ; 
Or  joyful  wandering  o'er  Elysian  ground, 
Among  sweet  flowers,  where  not  a  thorn  is  found. 
No  Winter  freezes  there,  no  Summer  fires, 
No  sickness  weakens,  and  no  labor  tires ; 
No  hunger,  poverty,  or  wants  oppress, 
Nor  envy  of  man's  boasted  happiness ; 
But  Spring  forever  glows,  serenely  bright, 
And  bliss  immortal  hails  the  heavenly  light. 

AUTHOR  UNKNOWN  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIT  ALE. 


OJV 

How  sweet  is  life  when  passed  with  those 

Whom  our  own  hearts  approving  choose ; 

When  on  some  few  surrounding  friends 

Our  all  of  happiness  depends  ! 

It  is  not  life  to  drag,  alone, 

A  miserable  being  on, 

Without  one  kindred  soul  to  share 

Our  pleasure  or  relieve  our  care. 

0  welcome  falls  the  stroke  of  fate, 

That  free?  us  from  so  sad  a  state. 

AUTHOR  UNKNOWN  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE, 


236  Poems  of  Sentiment. 


TOZLIO. 

SICILIAN  Muse,  begin  a  loftier  strain ! 

Though  lowly  shrubs  and  trees  that  shade  the  plain 

Delight  not  all ;  Sicilian  Muse,  prepare 

To  make  the  vocal  woods  deserve  a  consul's  care. 

The  last  great  age,  foretold  by  sacred  rhymes, 

Kenews  its  finish'd  course  :  Saturnian  times 

Roll  round  again ;  and  mighty  years,  begun 

From  their  first  orb,  !n  radiant  circles  run. 

The  base  degenerate  iron  offspring  ends ; 

A  golden  progeny  from  Heaven  descends. 

0  chaste  Lucina !  speed  the  mother's  pains, 

And  haste  the  glorious  birth !  thine  own  Apollo  reigns  ! 

The  lovely  boy,  with  his  auspicious  face, 

Shall  Pollio's  consulship  and  triumph  grace  : 

Majestic  months  set  out  with  him  to  their  appointed  race. 

The  father  banished  virtue  shall  restore  ; 

And  crimes  shall  threat  the  guilty  world  no  more. 

The  son  shall  lead  the  life  of  gods,  and  be 

By  gods  and  heroes  seen,  and  gods  and  heroes  see. 

The  jarring  nations  he  in  peace  shall  bind, 

And  with  paternal  virtues  rule  mankind. 

Unbidden,  earth  shall  wreathing  ivy  bring, 

And  fragrant  herbs,  the  promises  of  spring, 

As  her  first  offerings  to  her  infant  king. 

The  goats  with  strutting  dugs  shall  homeward  speed, 

And  lowing  herds  secure  from  lions  feed. 

His  cradle  shall  with  rising  flowers  be  crown'd ; 

The  serpent's  brood  shall  die ;  the  sacred  ground 

Shall  weeds  and  poisonous  plants  refuse  to  bear ; 

Each  common  bush  shall  Syrian  roses  wear. 

But  when  heroic  verse  his  youth  shall  raise, 

And  form  it  to  hereditary  praise, 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  237 

Unlabored  harvests  shall  the  fields  adorn, 

And  clustered  grapes  shall  blush  on  every  thorn ; 

The  knotted  oaks  shall  showers  of  honey  weep, 

And  through  the  matted  grass  the  liquid  gold  shall  creep. 

Yet,  of  old  fraud  some  footsteps  shall  remain  : 

The  merchant  still  shall  plough  the  deep  for  gain ; 

Great  cities  shall  with  walls  be  compassed  round  ; 

And  sharpened  shares  shall  vex  the  fruitful  ground ; 

Another  Tiphys  shall  new  seas  explore ; 

Another  Argo  land  her  chiefs  upon  th'  Iberian  shore ; 

Another  Helen  other  wars  create, 

And  great  Achilles  urge  the  Trojan  fate. 

And  when  to  ripened  manhood  he  shall  grow, 

The  greedy  sailor  shall  the  seas  forego  : 

No  keel  shall  cut  the  waves  for  foreign  ware ; 

For  every  soil  shall  every  product  bear. 

The  laboring  hind  his  oxen  shall  disjoin  : 

No  plough  shall  hurt  the  glebe,  no  pruning-hook  the  vine  ; 

Nor  wool  shall  in  dissembled  colors  shine ; 

But  the  luxurious  father  of  the  fold, 

With  native  purple,  or  unborrowed  gold, 

Beneath  his  pompous  fleece  shall  proudly  sweat ; 

And  under  Tyrian  robes  the  lamb  shall  bleat. 

The  Fates,  when  they  this  happy  web  have  spun, 

Shall  bless  the  sacred  clue,  and  bid  it  smoothly  run. 

Mature  in  years,  to  ready  honors  move, 

O  of  celestial  seed  !  O  foster-son  of  Jove  ! 

See,  laboring  Nature  calls  thee  to  sustain 

The  nodding  frame  of  Heaven,  and  earth,  and  main  ! 

See,  to  their  base  restored,  earth,  seas,  and  air ; 

And  joyful  ages,  from  behind,  in  crowding  ranks  appear. 

To  sing  thy  praise,  would  Heaven  my  breath  prolong, 

Infusing  spirits  worthy  such  a  song, 

Not  Thracian  Orpheus  should  transcend  my  lays, 

Nor  Linus,  crowned  with  never-fading  bays ; 


238  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

Though  each  his  heavenly  parent  should  inspire, 

The  Muse  instruct  the  voice,  and  Phrebus  tune  the  lyre. 

Should  Pan  contend  in  verse,  and  thou  my  theme, 

Arcadian  judges  should  their  god  condemn. 

Begin,  auspicious  boy  !  to  cast  about 

Thy  infant  eye,  and,  with  a  smile,  thy  mother  single  out. 

Thy  mother  well  deserves  that  short  delight, 

The  nauseous  qualms  of  ten  long  months  and  travail  to 

requite. 

Then  smile !  the  frowning  infant's  doom  is  read  : 
No  god  shall  crown  the  board,  nor  goddess  bless  the  bed. 

VIRGIL  (Latin). 

Translation  of  JOHN  DRYDEN. 


OJV  THE  2)&A TIT  Of  LESSIA'S 

MOURN,  all  ye  Loves  and  Graces !  mourn, 
Ye  wits,  ye  gallants,  and  ye  gay ! 

Death  from  my  fair  her  bird  has  torn, 
Her  much-lov'd  sparrow's  snatch'd  away. 

Her  very  eyes  she  priz'd  not  so, 
For  he  was  fond  and  knew  my  fair 

Well  as  young  girls  their  mothers  know, 
And  sought  her  breast  and  nestled  there. 

Once  fluttering  round,  from  place  to  place, 
He  gaily  chirp'd  to  her  alone ; 

But  now  that  gloomy  path  must  trace, 
Whence  Fate  permits  return  to  none. 

Accursed  Shades,  o'er  hell  that  lower, 

Oh,  be  my  curses  on  you  heard  ! 
.  Ye,  that  all  pretty  things  devour, 
Have  torn  from  me  my  pretty  bird. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  239 

Oh  evil  deed  !  Oh  sparrow  dead  ! 

Oh  what  a  wretch,  if  thou  canst  see 
My  fair-one's  eyes  with  weeping  red, 

And  know  how  much  she  grieves  for  thee  ! 

CATULLUS  (Latin). 

Translation  of  HON.  G.  LAMB. 


TO 

"  NEVER  shall  woman's  smile  have  power 
To  win  me  from  those  gentle  charms  ! " — 

Thus  swore  I  in  that  happy  hour 

When  Love  first  gave  them  to  my  arms. 

And  still  alone  thou  charm'st  my  sight — 
Still,  though  our  city  proudly  shine 

With  forms  and  faces  fair  and  bright, 
I  see  none  fair  or  bright  but  thine. 

Would  thou  wert  fair  for  only  me 

And  could'st  no  heart  but  mine  allure ! — 

To  all  men  else  unpleasing  be, 
So  shall  I  feel  niy  prize  secure. 

Oh  love  like  mine  ne'er  wants  the  zest 
Of  others'  envy,  others'  praise ; 

But,  in  its  silence  safely  blest, 

Broods  o'er  a  bliss  it  ne'er  betrays. 

Charm  of  my  life  !  by  whose  sweet  power 
All  cares  are  hush'd,  all  ills  subdued — 

My  light,  in  even  the  darkest  hour, 
My  crowd  in  deepest  solitude  ! 


240  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

No  ;  not  though  Heaven  itself  sent  down 
Some  maid  of  more  than  heavenly  charms, 

"With  bliss  undreamt  thy  bard  to  crown, 
Would  I  for  her  forsake  those  charms. 

TIBULLUS  (Latin). 

Translation  of  THOMAS  MOORE. 

CLIMS  jiT  COURT  FOR  MJE  THAT   WILL. 

CLIMB  at  court,  for  me,  that  will, 
Tottering  Favor's  pinnacle, 
All  I  seek  is  to  lie  still. 
Withdrawn  to  some  secret  nest, 
In  calm  leisure  let  me  rest  ; 
And,  far  off  the  public  stage, 
Pass  away  my  silent  age. 

Thus,  when  noiseless  and  unknown 
I  have  lived  out  all  my  span, 
Let  me  die,  without  a  groan, 
An  old  honest  countryman. 
Who,  exposed  to  others'  eyes, 
Into  his  own  heart  ne'er  pries, 
Death's  to  him  a  strange  surprise. 

SENECA  (Latin). 

Translation  of  ANDREW  MARVELL. 


TO 

WHEN  dangers  press,  a  mind  sustain 
Unshaken  by  the  storms  of  Fate  ; 

And  when  delight  succeeds  to  pain 
With  no  glad  insolence  elate  ; 

For  death  will  end  the  various  toys 

Of  hopes,  and  fears,  and  cares,  and  joys. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  241 

Mortal  alike,  if  sadly  grave 

You  pass  life's  melancholy  day ; 
Or  in  some  green,  retired  cave, 

Wearing  the  idle  hours  away, 
Give  to  the  Muses  all  your  soul, 
And  pledge  them  in  the  flowing  bowl ; 

Where  the  broad  pine,  and  poplar  white, 

To  join  their  hospitable  shade, 
With  intertwisted  boughs  delight ; 

And  o'er  its  pebbly  bed  convey'd, 
Labors  the  winding  stream  to  run 
Trembling  and  glittering  to  the  sun. 

Thy  generous  wine,  and  rich  perfume, 

And  fragrant  roses  hither  bring, 
That  with  the  early  zephyrs  bloom, 

And  wither  with  declining  spring, 
While  joy  and  youth  not  yet  have  fled, 
And  Fate  still  holds  the  uncertain  thread. 

You  soon  must  leave  your  verdant  bowers, 
And  groves  yourself  had  taught  to  grow, 

Your  soft  retreats  from  sultry  hours, 
Where  Tiber's  gentle  waters  flow, 

Soon  leave ;  and  all  you  call  your  own 

Be  squandered  by  an  heir  unknown. 

Whether  of  wealth  and  lineage  proud, 

A  high  patrician  name  you  bear, 
Or  pass  ignoble  in  the  crowd, 

Unshelter'd  from  the  midiight  air, 
'Tis  all  alike  ;  no  age  or  state 
Is  spared  by  unrelenting  Fate. 

21 


242  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

To  the  same  port  our  barks  are  bound ; 

One  final  doom  is  fixed  for  all : 
The  universal  wheel  goes  round, 

And  soon  or  late  each  lot  must  fall, 
When  all  together  shall  be  sent 
To  one  eternal  banishment. 

HORACE  (Latin),  ODE  III.,  BOOK  II. 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


TO  HIS  SERVANT. 

BOY  !  I  detest  all  Persian  fopperies  ; 

Fillet-bound  garlands  are  to  me  disgusting ; 
Task  not  thyself  with  any  search,  I  charge  thee, 
Where  latest  roses  linger. 

Bring  me  alone  (for  thou  wilt  find  that  readily) 
Plain  myrtle.     Myrtle  neither  will  disparage 
Thee  occupied  to  serve  me,  or  me  drinking 
Beneath  my  vine's  cool  shelter. 

HORACE  (Latin),  ODE  XXXVIII.,  BOOK  I. 

Translation  of  WILLIAM  COWPER. 


TO  AftlSTIUS  FUSCVS. 

THE  man,  my  friend,  whose  conscious  heart 
With  virtue's  sacred  ardor  glows, 

Nor  taints  with  death  th'  envenom'd  dart, 
Nor  needs  the  guard  of  Moorish  bows. 

O'er  icy  Caucasus  he  treads, 

O'er  torrid  Afric's  faithless  sands ; 

Or  where  the  fam'd  Hydaspes  spreads 

His  liquid  wealth,  through  barbarous  lands. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  243 

For  while  in  Sabine  forests  charm'd 

By  Lalage,  too  far  I  strayed, 
Me  singing,  careless  and  unarm'd, 

A  furious  wolf  approached  and  fled. 

No  beast  more  dreadful  ever  stain'd 

Apulia's  spacious  wilds  with  gore ; 
No  beast  more  fierce  Numidia's  land, 

The  lion's  thirsty  parent,  bore. 

Place  me  where  no  soft  summer  gale 
Among  the  quivering  branches  sighs, 

Where  clouds,  condens'd,  forever  veil, 
With  horrid  gloom,  the  frowning  skies ; 

Place  me  beneath  the  burning  zone, 

A  clime  denied  to  human  race ; 
My  flame  for  Lalage  I'll  own ; 

Her  voice,  her  smiles,  my  song  shall  grace. 

HORACE  (Latin),  ODE  XXII.,  BOOK  I. 

Translation  of  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


THE 

I  HAVE  a  cottage  by  the  hill ; 

It  stands  upon  a  meadow  green ; 
Behind  it  flows  a  murmuring  rill, 

Cool-rooted  moss  and  flowers  between. 

Beside  the  cottage  stands  a  tree, 

That  flings  its  shadow  o'er  the  eaves ; 

And  scarce  the  sunshine  visits  me, 

Save  when  a  light  wind  rifts  the  leaves. 


244  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

A  nightingale  sings  on  a  spray 

Through  the  sweet  summer  time  night-long, 
And  evening  travellers,  on  their  way, 

Linger  to  hear  her  plaintive  song. 

Thou  maiden  with  the  yellow  hair, 
The  winds  of  life  are  sharp  and  chill ; 

Wilt  thou  not  seek  a  shelter  there, 
In  yon  lone  cottage  by  the  hill  ? 

J.  W.  L.  GLEIM  (German). 

Translation  of  B.  H.  WHITMAN. 


TO  FAVST. 

AGAIN  ye  come,  again  ye  throng  around  me, 
Dim,  shadowy  beings  of  my  boyhood's  dream  ! 

Still  shall  I  bless,  as  then,  your  spell  that  bound  me  ? 
Still  bend  to  mists  and  vapors,  as  ye  seem  ? 

Nearer  ye  come  ! — I  yield  me,  as  ye  found  me 
In  youth,  your  worshipper ;  and  as  the  stream 

Of  air  that  folds  you  in  its  magic  wreaths 

Flows  by  my  lips,  youth's  joy  my  bosom  breathes. 

Lost  forms  and  loved  ones  ye  are  with  you  bringing, 

And  dearest  images  of  happier  days ; 
First-love  and  friendship  in  your  path  upspringing, 

Like  old  Tradition's  half-remembered  lays  ; 
And  long-slept  sorrows  waked,  whose  dirge-like  singing 

Recalls  my  life's  strange  labyrinthine  maze, 
And  names  the  heart  mourned,  many  a  stern  doom, 
Ere  their  year's  summer,  summoned  to  the  tomb. 

They  hear  not  these  my  last  songs,  they  whose  greeting 
Gladdened  my  first, — my  spring-time  friends  have  gone  ; 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  245 

And  gone,  fast  journeying  from  that  place  of  meeting, 
The  echoes  of  their  welcome,  one  by  one. 

Though  stranger-crowds,  my  listeners  since,  are  beating 
Time  to  my  music,  their  applauding  tone 

More  grieves  than  glads  me,  while  the  tried  and  true, 

If  yet  on  earth,  are  wandering  far  and  few. 

A  longing  long  unfelt,  a  deep-drawn  sighing 
For  the  far  Spirit-world,  o'erpowers  me  now ; 

My  song's  faint  voice  sinks  fainter,  like  the  dying 
Tones  of  the  wind-harp  swinging  from  the  bough ; 

And  my  changed  heart  throbs  warm, — no  more  denying 
Tears  to  my  eyes,  or  sadness  to  my  brow : 

The  Near  afar  off  seems,  the  Distant  nigh, 

The  Now  a  dream,  the  Past  reality. 

JOHASN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE  (German). 

Translation  of  FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK. 


THE  WREATH. 

THERE  went  a  maid  and  plucked  the  flowers 
That  grew  upon  the  sunny  lea ; 

A  lady  from  the  greenwood  came 
Most  beautiful  to  see  ! 

Unto  the  maid  she  friendly  came, 
And  in  her  hand  a  wreath  she  bore : 

"  It  blooms  not  now,  but  soon  will  bloom ; 
0,  wear  it  evermore  ! " 

And  as  this  maid  in  beauty  grew, 

And  walked  the  mellow  moon  beneath, 

And  weeped  young  tears  so  tender,  sweet, 
Began  to  bud  the  wreath. 


246  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

And  when  the  maid,  in  beauty  grown, 
Clasped  in  her  arms  the  glad  bridegroom, 

Forth  from  the  bud's  unfolded  cup 
There  blushed  a  joyous  bloom. 

And  when  a  playsome  child  she  rocked 

Her  tender  mother-arms  between, 
Amid  the  spreading  leafy  crown 

A  golden  fruit  was  seen. 

And  when  was  sunk  in  death  and  night 
The  heart  a  wife  had  held  most  dear, 

Then  shook  amid  her  shaken  locks 
A  yellow  leaf  and  sear. 

Soon  lay  she,  too,  in  blenched  death, 

And  still  this  dear-loved  wreath  she  wore, 

Then  bore  the  wreath, — this  wondrous  wreath, 
Both  fruit  and  bloom  it  bore. 

JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND  (German). 

Translation  in  FOREIGN  QUARTERLY  REVIEW. 


PASSAGE. 

MANY  a  year  is  in  its  grave, 
Since  I  crossed  this  restless  wave ; 
And  the  evening,  fair  as  ever, 
Shines  on  ruin,  rock,  and  river. 

Then  in  this  same  boat  beside 
Sat  two  comrades  old  and  tried, — 
One  with  all  a  father's  truth, 
One  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  247 

One  on  earth  in  silence  wrought, 
And  his  grave  in  silence  sought ; 
But  the  younger,  brighter  form 
Passed  in  battle  and  in  storm. 

So,  whene'er  I  turn  my  eye 

Back  upon  the  days  gone  by, 

Saddening  thoughts  of  friends  come  o'er  me, 

Friends  that  closed  their  course  before  me. 

But  what  binds  us,  friend  to  friend, 
But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend  ? 
Soul-like  were  those  hours  of  yore ; 
Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more. 

Take,  0  boatman,  thrice  thy  fee, — 

Take,  I  give  it  willingly  ; 

For,  invisible  to  thee, 

Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me. 

JOHANN  LDDWIG  UHLAKD  (German). 

Translation  of  SARAH  AUSTIN. 


THE 

"  WHEN  will  your  bards  be  weary 

Of  rhyming  on  ?     How  long 
Ere  it  is  sung  and  ended, 
The  old,  eternal  song  ? 

"  Is  it  not,  long  since,  empty, 
The  horn  of  full  supply ; 
And  all  the  posies  gathered, 
And  all  the  fountains  dry  1" 

As  long  as  the  sun's  chariot 
Yet  keeps  its  azure  track, 

And  but  one  human  visage 
Gives  answering  glances  back  ; 


248  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

As  long  as  skies  shall  nourish 
The  thunderbolt  and  gale, 

And,  frightened  at  their  fury, 
One  throbbing  heart  shall  quail ; 

As  long  as  after  tempests 

Shall  spring  one  showery  bow, 

One  breast  with  peaceful  promise 
And  reconcilement  glow ; 

As  long  as  night  the  concave 
Sows  with  its  starry  seed, 

And  but  one  man  those  letters 
Of  golden  writ  can  read ; 

Long  as  a  moonbeam  glimmers, 
Or  bosom  sighs  a  vow ; 

Long  as  the  wood-leaves  rustle 
To  cool  a  weary  brow ; 

As  long  as  roses  blossom, 
And  earth  is  green  in  May ; 

As  long  as  eyes  shall  sparkle 
And  smile  in  pleasure's  ray ; 

As  long  as  cypress  shadows 

The  graves  more  mournful  make, 

Or  one  cheek  's  wet  with  weeping, 
Or  one  poor  heart  can  break ; — 

So  long  on  earth  shall  wander 

The  goddess  Poesy, 
And  with  her,  one  exulting 

Her  votarist  to  be. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  249 

And  singing  on,  triumphing, 

The  old  earth-mansion  through, 
Out  marches  the  last  minstrel ; — 

He  is  the  last  man  too. 

The  Lord  holds  the  creation 

Forth  in  his  hand  meanwhile, 
Like  a  fresh  flower  just  opened, 

And  views  it  with  a  smile. 

When  once  this  Flower  Giant 

Begins  to  show  decay, 
And  earths  and  suns  are  flying 

Like  hlossom-dust  away; 

Then  ask, — if  of  the  question 

Not  weary  yet, — "  How  long, 
Ere  it  is  sung  and  ended, 

The  old,  eternal  song?" 

ANTON  ALEXANDER  VON  ATTERSPERG  (German). 

Translation  of  N.  L.  FROTHINGHAM. 


MI&JVZGJZT  HOWR. 

AT  midnight  hour  I  went,  not  willingly, 
A  little,  little  boy,  yon  churchyard  past, 

To  Father  Vicar's  house ;  the  stars  on  high 
On  all  around  their  beauteous  radiance  cast, 
At  midnight  hour. 

And  when  in  journeying  o'er  the  path  of  life, 
My  love  I  follow'd  as  she  onward  moved, 

With  stars  and  northern  lights  o'erhead  in  strife 
Going  and  coming,  perfect  bliss  I  proved 
At  midnight  hour. 


250  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

Until  at  length  the  full  moon,  lustre  fraught, 

Burst  through  the  gloom  wherein  she  was  enshrined ; 

And  then  the  willing,  active,  rapid  thought 
Around  the  past,  as  round  the  future,  twined, 
At  midnight  hour. 

JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE  (German). 

Translation  of  E.  A.  Bo  WRING. 


WHAT  strains  are,  these  before  the  gate  1 
Upon  the  bridge  what  chorus  ? 

Go,  bring  the  minstrel  hither  straight, 
And  let  him  play  before  us  ! 

The  king  commands,  the  page  retires, 

The  page  returns,  the  king  requires 
The  aged  man  to  enter. 

God  greet  ye  !  Lords  and  Ladies  gay  ! 

What  wealth  of  starry  lustre  ! 
Star  upon  star  in  rich  array, 

Who  names  each  shining  cluster? 
Amid  such  wealth  and  pomp  sublime 
Shut,  shut,  mine  eyes  !  this  is  no  time 

To  gaze  in  stupid  wonder. 

He  closed  his  eyes,  he  struck  a  chord, 
A  brave  old  ditty  played  he, 

Looked  boldly  on  each  noble  lord, 
And  in  her  lap  each  lady. 

The  king,  delighted  with  the  strain, 

Commanded  that  a  golden  chain 
Reward  the  honored  singer. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  251 

The  golden  chain  give  not  to  me ; 

Bestow  it  on  thy  Kitter, 
Who  bears  the  palm  of  chivalry, 

Where  hostile  lances  glitter. 
Bestow  it  on  thy  Chancellor, 
And  be  one  golden  burden  more, 

To  other  burdens  added. 

My  song  is  like  the  woodbird's  note, 

An  unbought,  careless  burden ; 
The  lay  that  gushes  from  the  throat 

Is  all-sufficient  guerdon. 
But  might  I  choose,  this  choice  were  mine, 
A  beaker  of  the  richest  wine, 

A  golden  beaker,  bring  me  ! 

The  beaker  brought,  the  minstrel  quaffed : 

0  balmy  cup  of  blessing  ! 
And  blessed  the  house,  in  such  a  draught, 

A  common  boon  possessing  ! 
When  fortune  smiles,  then  think  of  me, 
And  thank  ye  God  as  heartily 

As  I  for  this  now  thank  ye. 

JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE  (German). 

Translation  of  F.  H.  HEDGE. 

MIGJYOJY'S  SOJVG. 

KNOW'ST  thou  the  land  where  bloom  the  citron  bowers, 
Where  the  gold  orange  lights  the  dusky  grove  ? 

High  waves  the  laurel  there,  the  myrtle  flowers, 

And  through  a  still  blue  heaven  the  sweet  winds  rove : 

Know'st  thou  it  well  1 

There,  there,  with  thee, 

O  friend  !  0  loved  one  !  fain  my  steps  would  flee. 


252  Poems  of  Sentiment, 

Know'st  thou  the  dwelling?     There  the  pillars  rise, 
Soft  shines  the  hall,  the  painted  chambers  glow ; 

And  forms  of  marble  seem  with  pitying  eyes 

To  say,  "Poor  child,  what  thus  hath  wrought  thee  woe  ?" 

Know'st  thou  it  well  ? 

There,  there,  with  thee, 

0  rny  protector  !  homewards  might  I  flee  ! 

Know'st  thou  the  mountain  ?     High  its  bridge  is  hung, 
Where  the  mule  seeks  through  mist  and  cloud  his  way ; 

There  lurk  the  dragon  race  deep  caves  among, 
O'er  beetling  rocks  there  "foams  the  torrent  spray : 

Know'st  thou  it  well  ? 

With  thee,  with  thee, 

There  lies  my  path,  0  father  !  let  us  flee  ! 

JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE  (German). 

Translation  of  FELICIA  D.  HEMANS. 


THE  SHAKING  OF1  THE 

"  Here,  take  the  world  !"  cried  Jove  from  out  his  heaven 

To  mortals, — "  Be  you  of  this  earth  the  heirs  : 
Free  to  your  use  the  heritage  is  given ; 
Brother-like  choose  the  shares." 

Then  every  hand  stretch'd  eager  in  its  greed, 
And  busy  was  the  work  with  young  and  old ; 

The  Tiller  settled  upon  glebe  and  mead, 
The  Hunter,  wood  and  wold. 

The  Merchant  grip'd  the  store,  and  lock'd  the  ware — 
The  Abbot  chose  the  gardens  of  the  vine — 

The  King  barr'd  up  the  bridge  and  thoroughfare, 
And  cried,  "  The  tolls  are  mine." 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  253 

And  when  the  earth  was  thus  divided,  came 

Too  late  the  Poet  from  afar,  to  see 
That  all  had  proffer'd  and  had  seiz'd  their  claim — 

"  And  is  there  naught  for  me  ? 

"  Shall  I,  thy  truest  son,  be  yet  of  all 

Thy  human  children  portionless  alone?" 
Thus  went  his  cry,  and  Jove  beheld  him  fall 
Before  the  heavenly  throne. 

"  If  in  the  land  of  dreams  thou  wert  abiding," 

Answered  the  God,  "  why  murmurest  thou  at  me  <\ 
Say,  where  wert  thou,  when  earth  they  were  dividing?" 
The  Poet  said,  "  By  Thee 

"  Upon  thy  glorious  aspect  dwelt  my  sight — 

The  music  of  thy  Heaven  inthrall'd  my  ear ; 
Pardon  the  soul,  if,  drunken  with  thy  light, 
It  lost  its  portion  here  ! " 

"  Yet,"  answered  Jove,  "the  world  no  more  is  mine — 
Field,  chase  and  mart  are  given ;  no  place  for  thee  ! 
But  come  at  will,  since  earth  thou  must  resign, 
To  Heaven, — and  live  with  me." 

FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER  (German). 

Translation  of  E.  BULWEM  LYTTON. 


TILGftlM. 

LIFE'S  first  beams  were  bright  around  me, 

When  I  left  my  father's  cot, 
Breaking  every  tie  that  bound  me 

To  that  dear  and  hallowed  spot. 


254  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

Childish  hopes  and  youthful  pleasures, 
Freely  I  renounced  them  all ; 

Went  in  quest  of  nobler  treasures, 
Trusting  to  a  higher  call. 

For  to  me  a  voice  had  spoken, 
And  a  spirit  seemed  to  say, 

Wander  forth,  the  path  is  broken, 
Yonder,  eastward  lies  thy  way. 

Best  not  till  a  golden  portal 

Thou  hast  reached ; — there  enter  in ; 

And  what  thou  hast  prized  as  mortal, 
There,  immortal  life  shall  win. 

Evening  came,  and  morn  succeeded ; 

On  I  sped,  and  never  tired ; 
Cold,  nor  heat,  nor  storm  I  heeded ; 

Boundless  hope  my  soul  inspired. 

Giant  cliffs  rose  up  before  me ; 

Horrid  wilds  around  me  lay ; 
O'er  the  cliffs  my  spirit  bore  me ; 

Through  the  wilds  I  found  my  way ; 

Came  to  where  a  mighty  river 
Eastward  rolled  its  sullen  tide ; 

Forth  I  launched  with  bold  endeavor : 
"  Pilgrim  stream,  be  thou  my  guide !" 

It  hath  brought  me  to  the  ocean : 
Now,  upon  the  wide,  wide  sea, 

Where's  the  land  of  my  devotion  ? 
What  I  seek  seems  still  to  flee. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  255 

Woe  is  me  !  no  path  leads  thither  ; 

Earth's  horizons  still  retreat  ; 
Yonder  never  will  come  hither, 

Sea  and  sky  will  never  meet  ! 

FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER  (German). 

Translation  of  F.  H.  HEDGE. 


TRAVEL,  friends,  and  must  I  travel, 

To  refresh  this  weary  heart  ? 
From  this  narrow  work-day  circle 

You  would  have  me  then  depart  ? 
And  yet  do  I  more  deeply  even 

Into  home's  recesses  shrink, 
Feeling,  to  my  home  devoted, 

Freer,  richer,  than  you  think. 

These  dear  roads  are  always  novel, 

And  this  dear-loved  valley  too, 
And  the  old  long-trodden  bridges 

Always  touch  my  heart  anew. 
Oft,  when  to  myself  I've  said  it 

That  the  path  was  lone  and  drear, 
Instantly  there  flitted  past  me, 

At  broad  noon-day,  shadows  dear. 

When  the  sun  is  hence  departing, 

Still  my  spirit  knows  no  rest, 
Seeking  with  him  o'er  the  mountains 

Fabled  islands  of  the  blest. 
When  the  stars  are  all  emerging, 

Then  my  soul  is  all  abroad, 
And  in  ever  deeper  distance 

I  pursue  the  paths  of  God. 


256  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

Old  and  new,  all  youthful  drearaings, 

Things  to  be,  and  things  that  were, 
Heavenly  spaces,  deep  and  shoreless, 

Hourly  open  to  me  here. 
Therefore,  friends,  ah,  yes  !  I'll  travel, 

Tell  me  whither  shall  I  roam  ? 
There  is  all  too  much  excitement 

In  the  quiet  of  my  home. 

JOHANN  LUDWIO  UHLAND  (German). 

Translation  of  W.  H.  PcRNESa 


TO   THE 

So,  wilt  thou,  with  thy  charming  train, 
Kelentless,  faithless,  fly  from  me, 

With  all  thy  pleasure,  all  thy  pain, 
And  all  thy  World  of  Fantasy  ? 

Alas  !  can  naught  thy  flight  restrain  1 

Can  naught  mine  age  of  gold  delay  ? 

No  !  downward  to  the  eternal  main 
The  hurrying  waters  lapse  away. 

Extinct  in  night  the  suns  are  lost 

That  did  my  youth  serenely  gild  : 
Dissolved  in  air  the  Ideal  host 

That  once  the  heart  inebriate  fill'd. 
Gone  is  the  sweet  belief  divine 

In  beings  born  to  dreams  !    I  see 
The  godlike  realm,  that  once  was  mine, 

Thy  spoil,  0  stern  Reality  ! 

As  round  the  form  his  art  had  wrought 
Pygmalion's  yearning  arms  were  thrown, 

Till  life  from  love  the  statue  caught, 
And  feeling  glowed  beneath  the  stone  ; 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  257 

So,  Nature,  in  my  loving  arms, 

And  with  my  young  desire,  I  prest ; 
Till,  warm'd  to  breath  and  living  charms, 

She  kindled  at  my  Poet's  breast. 

With  mine  impassion'd  flame  she  burn'd, 

Her  silence  found  responsive  tone ; 
My  kiss  of  love  her  kiss  return'd ; 

Her  heart  interpreted  my  own. 
Then  liv'd  the  flower — then  liv'd  the  tree  ! 

Then  sang  the  fountain's  silver  fall ! 
No  thing  without  a  soul  to  me  ! 

My  life  its  echo  heard  in  all ! 

Pent  in  the  bosom's  narrow  bound, 

The  circling  whole  in  embryo  lay, 
And  strove  in  deed,  word,  shape  and  sound, 

To  burst  existing  into  day. 
How  rich,  while  yet  the  germ  conceal'd, 

I  thought  that  world  of  blooms  must  be ; 
But  from  the  germ  they  rose  reveal'd, 

And  oh,  how  mean  the  flowers  I  see ! 

Light,  as  by  valor  wing'd  for  air, 

On  life  illumed  by  morning  beams, 
Sprang  Youth,  as  yet  uncurb'd  by  care, 

And  blest  in  error's  happy  dreams : 
Up  to  the  ether's  faintest  star 

Did  wild  design  adventurous  soar — 
Oh,  naught  too  high,  and  naught  too  far 

For  those  strong  pinions  to  explore. 

Borne  into  Heaven — there  seem'd  no  strife 
Too  hard  for  him  the  prize  to  gain ; 
22 


258  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

How  danced  before  the  car  of  life 
The  light  Procession's  airy  train  ! 

Love,  with  rewards  to  lovers  known, 
Fortune,  with  fillets  golden-spun, 

And  Glory,  with  her  starry  crown, 
And  Truth,  that  glittered  in  the  sun. 

Ah  !  midway  soon  the  radiant  shapes 

Forsaking,  faithless  from  me  stray, 
As  one  by  one  the  host  escapes 

And  into  distance  fades  away. 
Light  Fortune  was  the  first  to  fly ; — 

The  thirst  for  knowledge  lingered  still. 
When  Doubt,  in  tempest  vail'd  the  sky, 

And  Truth  no  more  was  visible. 

And  holy  Glory's  crown  sublime 

I  saw  ignoble  brows  above ; 
And  oh,  the  brief  sweet  bloom  of  Time ! 

Oh,  all  too  soon  fled  rosy  Love ! 
And  stiller  yet,  and  yet  more  lone, 

The  desert  path  before  me  lay, 
Till  Hope  itself  but  feebly  shone 

Along  the  glimmering,  gloomy  way. 

Who,  loving,  lingers  yet  to  guide, 

When  all  that  train  inebriate  fled, 
Who  stands  consoling  by  my  side 

And  follows  to  the  House  of  Dread  ? 
Thou  Friendship,  thou  art  faithful  there, 

As  gentle  still  to  heal  the  wound, 
As  strong  the  load  of  life  to  share, 

0  !  thou  the  earliest  sought  and  found. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  259 

And  thou  that  dost  with  her  combine 

To  lull  the  soul's  unruly  storm, 
At  least  thy  tasks,  Employment  Mine, 

Destroy  not,  slowly  though  they  form. 
If  swelling  but  by  grains  of  sand, 

Eternity — that  pile  sublime — 
Yet  moments,  days  and  years  thy  hand 

Strikes  from  the  great  account  of  Time. 

FKIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER  (German). 

Translation  of  E.  BULWER  LYTTON. 

SOJVG  Of1  THE  35&LL. 

VlVOS  VOCO.      MORTCOS   PLANGO.      FULGUBA  FRANCO. 

IN  the  earth,  now  firmly  planted, 
Stands  the  mould  of  well-burnt  clay. 
Brisk,  my  lads  !  your  strength  is  wanted, 
We  must  make  the  bell  to-day  ! 

From  the  heated  brow 

Sweat  must  freely  flow, 
So  the  work  the  master  showeth ; 
Yet  the  blessing  Heaven  bestoweth. 

The  work,  we  earnestly  are  doing, 
Befitteth  well  an  earnest  word ; 
Then  Toil  goes  on,  more  cheerly  flowing, 
When  good  discourse  is  also  heard. 
So  let  us  then  with  care  now  ponder 
What  through  weak  strength  originates ; 
To  him  no  reverence  can  we  render, 
Who  never  heeds  what  he  creates. 
'Tis  this  indeed  that  man  most  graceth, 
For  this  'tis  his  to  understand, 
That  in  his  inner  heart  he  traceth 
What  he  produces  with  his  hand. 


260  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

Take  the  wood,  from  pine-trunks  riven, 
Dry  it  must  be  through  and  through, 
That  the  flame,  straight  inward  driven, 
Fiercely  strike  into  the  flue  ! 

Let  the  copper  brew  ! 

Quick  the  tin  in,  too  ! 
That  the  tough  bell-metal  going, 
Through  the  mould  be  rightly  flowing. 

What  in  the  pit,  by  help  of  fire, 
The  hand  of  man  is  forming  thus, 
High  in  the  belfry  of  the  spire, 
There  will  it  tell  aloud  of  us. 
Still  will  it  last  while  years  are  rolling, 
And  many  hearts  by  it  be  stirred, 
"With  all  the  mourner's  woes  condoling, 
And  with  Devotion's  choir  accord. 
Whate'er  this  changing  life  is  bringing, 
Here  down  beneath,  to  Earth's  frail  son, 
Strikes  on  the  metal  crown,  which,  ringing, 
Will  monitory  sound  it  on. 

Bubbles  white  I  see  appearing ; 
Good !  the  mass  is  melted  now. 
Throw  in  salts,  the  fluid  clearing, 
They  will  help  it  quick  to  flow. 

Clean  too  from  the  scum 

Must  the  mixture  come, 
That  in  metal  pure  abounding, 
Pure  and  full  the  bell  be  sounding. 

For,  with  joy's  festal  music  ringing, 
The  child  beloved  it  soon  will  greet 
Upon  his  life's  first  walk  beginning, 
Wrapt  in  the  arms  of  Slumber  sweet ; 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  261 

For  him  yet  rest  in  Time's  dark  bosom 

Funereal  wreath  and  joyous  blossom ; 

A  mother's  tender  care  adorning 

With  watchful  love  his  golden  morning, — 

The  years — they  fly  like  arrows  fleet. 

The  maiden's  plays  the  proud  boy  scorneth, 

He  rushes  forth  the  world  to  roam 

With  pilgrim's  staff,  at  last  returneth, 

A  stranger  in  his  father's  home. 

And  brilliant  in  her  youthful  splendor, 

Like  creature  come  from  Heaven's  height, 

With  cheeks  all  mantling,  modest,  tender, 

The  maiden  stands  before  his  sight. 

A  nameless  longing  then  is  waking 

In  the  youth's  heart ;  he  strolls  alone ; 

The  tears  from  out  his  eyes  are  breaking ; 

Joy  in  his  brothers'  sports  is  gone. 

He  blushes  as  her  steps  he  traces, 

Her  greeting  smile  his  heart  elates, 

For  fairest  flowers  the  fields  he  searches, 

Wherewith  his  love  he  decorates. 

O  tender  longing,  hope  how  thrilling, 

The  golden  time  of  young  first  love, 

The  eye  beholds  all  Heaven  unveiling, 

Eevels  the  heart  in  bliss  above  ! 

Oh  that,  forever  fresh  and  vernal, 

First  love's  sweet  season  were  eternal ! 

See  how  brown  the  pipes  are  getting ! 
This  little  rod  I  dip  it  in, 
If  it  show  a  glazed  coating, 
Then  the  casting  may  begin. 

Now,  my  lads,  enough ! 

Prove  me  now  the  stuff, 


262  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

The  brittle  with  the  soft  combining, 
See  if  they  be  rightly  joining. 
For  when  the  Strong  and  Mild  are  pairing, 
The  Manly  with  the  Tender  sharing, 
The  chord  will  then  be  good  and  strong. 
See  ye,  who  join  in  endless  union, 
That  heart  with  heart  be  in  communion  ! 
For  Fancy's  brief,  Repentance  long. 

Lovely  round  the  bride's  locks  clinging, 
Plays  the  virgin  coronal, 
When  the  merry  church  bells  ringing 
Summon  to  the  festival. 
Ah !  the  hour  of  life  most  festal 
Ends  the  May  of  Life  also, 
With  the  veil  and  girdle  vestal 
Breaks  the  lovely  charm  in  two. 
For  Passion  will  fly, 
But  Love  is  enduring, 
The  flower  must  die, 
Fruit  is  maturing. 
The  man  must  be  out 
In  hostile  life  striving, 
Be  toiling  and  thriving, 
And  planting,  obtaining, 
Devising  and  gaining, 
And  daring,  enduring, 
So  fortune  securing ; 

Then  riches  flow  in,  all  untold  in  their  measure, 
And  filled  is  the  garner  with  costliest  treasure  ; 
The  store-rooms  increase,  the  house  spreadeth  out, 
And  in  it  presides 
The  chaste,  gentle  housewife, 
The  mother  of  children, 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  263 

And  ruleth  metely 

The  household  discreetly ; 

The  maidens  she  traineth, 

The  boys  she  restraineth, 

And  work  never  lingers, 

So  busy  her  fingers, 

Increasing  the  gains 

With  ordering  pains, 

And  sweet-scented  presses  with  treasure  is  filling, 
And  thread  round  the  swift-humming  spindle  is  reeling, 
And  the  neat  burnished  chests — she  gathers  them  full 
Of  linen  snow-white,  and  of  glistering  wool, 
The  gloss  and  the  shine  to  the  good  she  adds  ever, 
And  resteth  never. 

And  the  father  with  look  elate, 
From  the  high,  far-seeing  gable 
Surveys  his  blooming,  broad  estate, 
Seeth  his  hay-stacks  forest-like  growing, 
And  the  barns  with  their  lofts  o'erflowing, 
And  the  granaries  bent  with  the  blessing, 
And  the  corn  as  it  waves  unceasing ; 
Boasting  with  pride-lit  face  : 
Firm,  as  the  Earth's  own  base, 
'Gainst  all  misfortune's  strength, 
Standeth  my  house  at  length  ! 
Yet  with  mighty  Fate  supernal 
Man  can  weave  no  bond  eternal, 
And  misfortune  strideth  fast. 

Be  the  casting  now  beginning ; 
Finely  jagged  is  the  grain. 
But  before  we  set  it  running, 
Let  us  breathe  a  pious  strain  ! 


264  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

Now  knock  out  the  tap ! 

God  forbid  mishap ! 
Through  the  bending  cannons  hollow 
Smoking  shoots  the  fire-brown  billow. 

Beneficent  the  might  of  Flame, 
When  man  keeps  watch  and  makes  it  tame. 
In  what  he  fashions,  what  he  makes, 
Help  from  this  Heaven's  force  he  takes. 
But  fearful  is  the  force  of  Heaven, 
When,  having  all  its  fetters  riven, 
It  bursts  forth,  its  own  law  to  be, 
Thy  daughter,  Nature,  wild  and  free  ! 
Wo  !  when  once  emancipated, 
With  nought  her  power  to  withstand, 
Through  the  streets  thick  populated, 
High  she  waves  her  monstrous  brand ! 
By  the  elements  is  hated 
What  is  formed  by  mortal  hand. 
From  the  heavens 
Blessing  gushes, 
The  shower  rushes ; 
From  the  heavens,  all  alike, 
Lightnings  strike. 
Hear  ye  not  the  belfry  moan  ? 
'Tis  the  alarm ! 
Blood-red  now 
Heaven  is  flushing ; 
That  is  not  the  daylight's  glow ! 
What  a  rushing 
Streets  all  up ! 
Smoke  rolls  up ! 

The  fire  column,  flickering,  flowing, 
Through  the  long  streets  swiftly  growing, 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  265 

With  the  wind  is  onward  going ; 
As  from  out  a  furnace  flashing 
Glows  the  air,  and  beams  are  crashing, 
Pillars  tumble,  windows  creaking, 
Mothers  fleeing,  children  shrieking, 
Cattle  lowing 
'Mid  the  ruin ; 

All  is  fleeing,  saving,  running, 
Light  as  day  the  night's  becoming ; 
Through  the  chain  of  hands  all  vying, 
Swiftly  flying, 

Goes  the  bucket ;  bow-like  bending, 
Spouts  the  water,  high  ascending. 
Howling  comes  the  blast,  befriending 
The  flame  it  roaring  seeks  and  fans. 
Crackling  midst  the  well-dried  grains, 
Seizing  in  the  granary  chambers 
On  the  dry  wood  of  the  timbers, 
And,  as  if  it  would,  in  blowing, 
Tear  the  huge  bulk  of  the  world 
With  it,  in  its  flight  uphurled, 
Mounts  the  flame  to  heaven,  growing 
Giant  taU ! 
Hopeless  all, 

Man  to  God  at  last  hath  yielded, 
Idly  sees  what  he  hath  builded, 
Wondering,  to  destruction  going.        , 
All  burnt  out 
Are  the  places, 

Where  the  tempest  wildly  races, 
In  the  vacant  windows  dreary 
Horror's  sitting, 

And  the  clouds  of  heaven,  flitting 
High,  look  in. 
23 


266  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

Ere  he  goes, 
On  the  ashes, 
Where  his  riches 

Buried  lie,  one  look  man  throws, — 
His  pilgrim's  staff  then  gladly  clutches. 
Whate'er  the  fire  from  him  hath  torn, 
One  solace  sweet  is  ever  nearest, 
The  heads  he  counteth  of  his  dearest, 
And  lo !  not  one  dear  head  is  gone. 

In  the  earth  it  now  reposes, 
Happily  the  mould  is  full ; 
When  our  work  the  light  discloses, 
Will  it  pay  our  pains  and  skill  ? 

Should  the  casting  crack  ? 

If  the  mould  should  break  ! 
Ah  !  perhaps  while  we  are  waiting, 
Mischief  is  its  work  completing. 

To  holy  Earth's  dark,  silent  bosom 
We  our  handiwork  resign, 
The  husbandmen  the  seed  consign, 
And  hope  that  it  will  swell  and  blossom 
And  bless  the  sower,  by  laws  divine. 
Still  costlier  seed,  in  sorrow  bringing, 
We  hide  within  .the  lap  of  earth, 
And  hope  that,  from  the  coffin  springing, 
'T  will  bloom  in  brighter  beauty  forth. 

From  the  belfry, 
Deep  and  slow, 
Tolls  the  funeral 
Note  of  woe. 

Sad  and  solemn,  with  its  knell  attending 
Some  new  wanderer,  his  last  journey  wending. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  267 

Ah  !  the  wife  it  is,  the  dear  one ; 
Ah !  it  is  the  faithful  mother, 
Whom  the  angel  dark  is  bearing 
From  the  husband's  arms  endearing, 
From  the  group  of  children  far, 
Whom  she  blooming  to  him  bare ; 
Whom  she  on  her  faithful  breast 
Saw,  with  joy  maternal,  rest. 
Ah !  the  household  ties  that  bound  her 
Are  unloosed  for  evermore, 
For  pale  shadows  now  surround  her, 
Who  the  household  ruled  o'er  ! 
For  her  faithful  guidance  ceases, 
No  more  keepeth  watch  her  care, 
In  the  void  and  orphaned  places 
Rules  the  stranger,  loveless  there. 

Till  the  bell  be  cooled  and  hardened, 
Let  there  rest  from  labor  be ; 
And  be  each  as  free,  unburdened, 
As  the  bird  upon  the  tree. 

Once  the  stars  appear, 

From  all  duty  clear, 
Workmen  hear  the  vespers  ringing ; 
Still  to  Master  care  is  clinging. 

Joyous  haste  his  bosom  swelling, 
In  the  wild  and  far-off  greenwood, 
Seeks  the  wanderer  his  dear  dwelling. 
Bleating  wind  the  sheep  slow  homeward, 
And  the  kine  too, 

Sleek  and  broad-browed,  slowly  trooping, 
Come  in  lowing, 
To  the  stalls  accustomed  going 


268  Poems  of  Sentiment, 

Heavy  in 

Kocks  the  wagon, 

Harvest  laden. 

Bright  with  flowers, 

On  sheafy  towers 

Garlands  glance, 

And  the  younger  of  the  reapers 

Seek  the  dance. 

Street  and  market-place  grow  stiller ; 

Kound  the  light,  domestic,  social, 

Gather  now  the  household  inmates, 

And  the  city  gate  shuts  creaking. 

Black  bedighted 

All  the  Earth  is ; 

Kest  the  people  unaffrighted 

By  the  dark, 

Which  alarms  the  bad  benighted ; 

For  the  eye  of  Law  doth  watch  and  mark. 

Holy  Order,  rich  in  blessing, 
Heaven's  daughter,  lightly  pressing, 
Holds  her  law  all  ranks  connected. 
Mighty  States  hath  she  erected, 
Calling  from  the  wilds  the  savage 
There  to  dwell — no  more  to  ravage. 
Into  human  huts  she  goeth, 
And  all  gentle  customs  showeth, 
Weaving  that  dear  tie  around  us, 
Which  to  Fatherland  hath  bound  us. 

Busy  hands  by  thousands  stirring 
In  a  cheerful  league  unite, 
And  it  is  in  fiery  motion 
That  all  forces  come  to  light. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  269 

Briskly  work,  by  Freedom  guarded, 
Both  the  master  and  the  men, 
Each  one  in  his  place  rewarded, 
Scorning  every  scoffer  then. 
Labor  is  our  decoration, 
Work  the  blessing  will  command, 
Kings  are  honored  by  their  station, 
Honors  us  the  toil-worn  hand. 

Gentle  Concord, 
Heavenly  Peace, 
Hover,  hover 

Ever  friendly  o'er  this  place ! 
Never  may  that  day  be  dawning 
When  the  hordes  of  battle  swarming 
Through  this  silent  vale  are  storming : 
When  the  heavens, 
Which,  with  evening  blushing  mildly, 
Softly  beam, 

Shall  with  flames,  consuming  wildly 
Towns  and  cities,  fearful  gleam ! 

Break  me  up  the  useless  structure, 
It  has  now  fulfilled  its  part, 
That  the  work,  without  a  fracture, 
Joy  may  give  to  eye  and  heart. 

Swing  the  hammer,  swing 

Till  the  case  shall  spring ! 
That  the  bell  to  light  be  given, 
Be  the  mould  in  pieces  riven. 

The  master  wise  alone  is  knowing 
Just  when  the  mould  should  broken  be, 
But  wo  !  when,  streams  of  fire  flowing, 


270  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

The  glowing  ore  itself  sets  free  ! 
Blind  raging,  with  the  crash  of  thunder, 
It  shivers  the  exploded  house, 
As  if  hell's  jaws  had  yawned  asunder, 
Destruction  far  and  wide  it  throws. 
When  brutal  force  is  senseless  storming, 
There  can  no  perfect  work  be  forming ; 
When  nations  seek  themselves  to  free, 
There  can  no  common  welfare  be. 

Wo  !  if  heaped  up,  the  fire-tinder 

The  inmost  heart  of  cities  fill, 

Their  fetters  rending  all  asunder, 

The  people  work  their  own  fierce  will ! 

Then  at  the  bell  ropes  tuggeth  Riot, 

The  bell  howls  forth  a  wailing  sound, 

Sacred  to  peace  alone  and  quiet, 

For  blood  it  rings  the  signal  round. 

"  Equality  and  Freedom  "  howling, 

Eushes  to  arms  the  citizen, 

And  bloody-minded  bands  are  prowling, 

And  streets  and  halls  are  filled  with  men ; 

Then  women,  to  hyenas  turning, 

On  bloody  horrors  feast  and  laugh, 

And,  with  the  thirst  of  panthers  burning, 

The  blood  of  hearts  yet  quivering  quaff. 

Nought  sacred  is  there  more,  for  breaking 

Are  all  the  bands  of  pious  Awe, 

The  good  man's  place,  the  bad  are  taking, 

And  all  the  vices  mock  at  law. 

'Tis  dangerous  to  rouse  the  lion, 

And  deadly  is  the  tiger's  tooth, 

And  yet  the  terriblest  of  terrors 

Is  man  himself  devoid  of  ruth. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  271 

Alas  !  when  to  the  ever  blinded 
The  heavenly  torch  of  Light  is  lent ! 
It  guides  him  not,  it  can  but  kindle 
Whole  States  in  flames  and  ashes  blent. 

Joy  to  me  now  God  hath  given  1 
Look  ye  !  like  a  golden  star, 
From  the  shell,  all  bright  and  even, 
Comes  the  metal  kernel  clear, 

Bright  from  top  to  rim, 

Like  the  sun's  own  beam. 
E'en  the  'scutcheon,  formed  completely, 
Shows  its  maker  worketh  neatly. 

Come  all !  Come  all ! 
My  comrades  stand  around  and  listen, 
While  solemnly  our  work  we  christen ! 
CONCORDIA  we  the  bell  will  call. 
To  concord  and  to  heartful  adoration 
Assembling  here  the  loving  congregation. 

And  this  its  office  be  henceforth, 
Whereto  the  master  gave  it  birth ; 
High,  this  low  earthly  being  over, 
Shall  it,  in  Heaven's  cerulean  tent, 
The  neighbor  of  the  thunder,  hover, 
And  border  on  the  firmament. 
And  let  it  be  a  voice  from  Heaven, 
Joined  with  the  starry  host  afar, 
By  which  high  praise  to  God  is  given, 
And  which  leads  on  the  crowned  year. 
Its  metal  mouth  alone  devoted 
To  sacred  and  eternal  things, 


272  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

And  hourly,  Time,  still  onward  flying, 
Shall  touch  it  with  his  rapid  wings. 
To  Destiny  a  tongue  affording, 
Heartless  itself,  befall  what  may, 
It  feels  for  none,  yet  shall  its  swinging 
Attend  upon  life's  changeful  play. 
And  as  away  its  music  fadeth, 
That  strikes  so  grandly  on  the  ear, 
So  may  it  teach,  that  nought  abideth, 
That  all  things  earthly  disappear. 
Now  with  strength  the  rope  is  lending, 
Kaise  the  Bell  from  out  the  ground, 
In  the  atmosphere  ascending, 
Let  it  seek  the  realms  of  Sound  I 

Heave  it,  heave  it,  raise  ! 

Now  it  moves,  it  sways  ! 
Joy  to  us  may  it  betoken, 
PEACE,  the  first  sound  by  it  spoken. 

FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER  (German). 

Tmnslatim  of  W.  H.  FPRNESS. 


MANLY  TEAKS. 

MAIDEN,  thou  who  saw'st  me  weeping, 
Say  !  what  is  a  woman's  tear  1 
Tis  like  the  diamond  dews  of  heaven, 
Sparkling  on  the  flowerets  clear. 

Whether  troubled  night  hath  brought  it, 
Or  with  the  morn's  sweet  smile  'tis  shed, 
Yet  still  it  laves  the  lovely  blossom 
That,  refreshed,  lifts  up  its  head. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  273 

But  the  tears  of  men  resemble 
Those  precious  gums  the  Indies  grow, 
That,  closely  pent  within  the  heart-wood, 
Of  themselves  do  seldom  flow. 

For  deeply  must  the  bark  be  severed, 
Before  the  golden  juice  appears, 
Which,  flowing  forth  in  crystal  brightness, 
I  liken  unto  manly  tears. 

For  though  the  fount  may  cease  from  flowing, 
The  tree  in  beauty  bloom  again, 
And  oft  the  budding  Spring  be  welcomed, 
Yet  still  the  scars  of  wounds  remain. 

Think,  maiden,  as  thou  vainly  strivest 
Thy  thoughts  within  thy  breast  to  keep, 
Think  of  the  tree  so  deeply  wounded, 
Think  of  the  man  thou  sawest  weep. 

ANTON  ALEXANDER  VON  AUEESPEBO  (German). 

Translation  of  WILLIAM  HUNT. 


THE  EYJENKYG  GOSSIP. 

WE  sat  by  the  fisher's  cottage, 
"We  looked  on  sea  and  sky, 

We  saw  the  mists  of  evening 
Come  riding  and  rolling  by. 

The  lights  in  the  lighthouse  window 
Brighter  and  brighter  grew, 

And  on  the  dim  horizon 
A  ship  still  hung  in  view. 


274  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

We  spake  of  storm  and  shipwreck, 

Of  sailors,  and  of  their  life, 
How  they  hover  'twixt  sky  and  water, 

'Twixt  joy  and  sorrow's  strife. 

We  spoke  of  coasts  far  distant, 

We  spoke  of  south  and  north, 
Strange  men  and  stranger  customs, 

That  those  wild  lands  send  forth. 

Of  lands  by  the  glancing  Ganges 

The  giant  trees  embower, 
And  the  fair  and  silent  creatures 

That  kneel  to  the  Lotus  flower. 

In  Lapland  are  filthy  people, 

Flat  skulled,  wide  mouthed,  and  small, 

Who  bake  their  fish  on  the  embers, 
And  cower,  and  squeak,  and  squall 

The  maidens  listened  earnestly ; 

At  last  the  tales  were  ended, 
The  ship  was  gone,  the  dusky  night 

Had  on  our  talk  descended. 

HEINRICH  HEINE  (German). 

Translation  in  EDINBURGH  REVIEW. 


GJ3NTL& 

THOU  gentle  ferry-maiden, 

Come — draw  thy  boat  to  land: 

And  sit  thee  down  beside  me, 
We'll  talk  with  hand  in  hand. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  275 

Lay  thy  head  against  my  bosom, 

And  have  no  fear  of  me ; 
Dost  thou  not  venture  boldly 

Each  day  on  the  roaring  sea? 

My  heart  is  like  the  ocean, 

It  hath  storm,  and  ebb,  and  flow ; 

And  many  a  pearl  is  hidden 
In  its  silent  depths  below. 

HEINBICH  HEINE  (German). 

Translation  of  CHABLES  Q.  LELAND. 


THE 

I  SATE  upon  a  mountain 
Far  from  my  dear  homeland, 
Beneath  me  hills  and  cornfields, 
And  valleys  on  either  hand. 

And  dreamingly  from  my  finger 
A  precious  ring  I  drew, 
Which  my  dearest  gave  unto  me, 
A  love  pledge  at  adieu. 

And,  as  one  holds  a  spy-glass, 
I  held  it  to  my  eye, 
And  through  the  little  circle 
The  world  I  did  espy. 

Oh,  beautiful  green  mountains 
And  golden  harvests  bright, 
Through  such  a  pretty  frame-work 
Truly  a  lovely  sight ! 


276  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

Here  little  cots  are  hanging 

On  the  green  mountain  side, 

There  sickles  and  scythes  are  gleaming 

Through  grain  fields  far  and  wide. 

And  then  the  plain  outspreading, 
Where  flows  the  stately  stream, 
And  distant  blue-hill  ranges 
Like  border-watchers  seem. 

Cities  with  domes  and  spires, 
Green  forests  and  waving  trees, 
Clouds  flying  like  my  feelings 
Unto  thee  in  the  breeze. 

The  homes  of  happy  people, 
The  earth  and  then  the  skies, 
In  a  pretty  golden  frame-work 
Did  my  little  ring  comprise. 

Oh  beautiful  thought,  to  know  it, 
That  a  love-ring  can  comprise 
The  homes  of  happy  people, 
The  earth  and  then  the  skies ! 

ANTON  ALEXANDER  VON  AUERSPERG  (German). 

Translation  of  WILLIAM  HUNT. 


THE  TWO   COFJ?IJVS. 

AWAY  in  the  old  cathedral 

Two  coffins  stand  alone ; 
In  one  of  them  sleeps  King  Ottmar, 

And  the  singer  rests  in  one. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  277 

The  king  sat  once  in  power, 

High  throned  in  his  father's  land ; 

The  crown  still  graces  his  temples, 
The  falchion  his  kingly  hand. 

But  near  the  proud  king  the  singer 

Is  peacefully  sleeping  on, 
In  his  lifeless  hand  still  clasping 

The  harp  of  the  pious  tone. 

The  castles  around  are  falling, 

The  war-cry  rings  through  the  land, 

The  sword,  it  stirreth  never 
There  in  the  dead  king's  hand. 

Blossoms  and  vernal  breezes 

Are  floating  the  vale  along, 
And  the  singer's  harp  is  sounding 

In  never-ending  song. 

ANDREAS  JUSTINUS  KERNER  (German). 

Translation  of  DULCKEN. 


TOSTILLIOJV. 

LOVELY  was  the  night  of  May, 
Clouds  of  silvery  whiteness 

O'er  the  blooming  Spring  away 
Sailed  in  fleecy  lightness. 

Meadow,  grove,  and  mountain's  brow 

Silent  rest  were  taking : 
No  one  but  the  moonshine,  now, 

On  the  roads  was  waking. 


278  Poenis  of  Sentiment. 

Glare  and  din  of  day  had  fled — 
Ceased  each  warbler's  numbers — 

Spring  her  fairy  children  led 
Through  the  realm  of  slumbers. 

Whispering  breeze  and  brooklet  crept 

Slow  with  silent  paces, 
Fragrant  dreams  of  flowers  that  slept 

Filled  the  shadowy  spaces. 

But  my  rough  postillion  now 
Cracked  his  whip,  and,  flying, 

Left  the  vale  and  mountain's  brow 
To  his  horn  replying. 

O'er  the  hill — across  the  plain — 
Loud  the  hoofs  resounded, 

As,  through  all  the  bright  domain, 
On  the  good  steeds  bounded. 

Wood  and  mead,  as  on  we  sped, 
Flew  with  scarce  a  greeting ; 

Town  and  country  by  us  fled, 
Like  a  still  dream  fleeting. 

In  the  lovely  May-moon  light 
Lay  a  churchyard  nested, 

And  the  traveller's  roaming  sight 
Solemnly  arrested. 

On  the  mountain-side  the  wall 
Seemed  with  age  reclining, 

And,  above,  a  sad  and  tall 
Crucifix  was  shining. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  279 

Driver,  at  a  slower  pace, 

Up  the  road  advances, 
Stops,  and  toward  the  burial-place 

Keverently  glances. 

"  Horse  and  wheel  must  tarry  here — 

Sir,  'tis  not  for  danger — 
But  there  lies  one  sleeping  near, 

Was  to  me  no  stranger ! 

"  'Twas  a  lad  most  rare  and  true — 

Ah,  the  sorrow  ponder  ! 
None  so  clear  the  post-horn  blew 

As  my  comrade  yonder ! 

"  Always  must  I  linger  here, 

And,  with  mournful  pleasure, 
To  the  dead  one's  waiting  ear 

Blow  his  favorite  measure  !" 

Toward  the  churchyard  now  he  blew 

Such  entrancing  numbers, 
Well  might  pierce  the  dull  ground  through, 

Stir  the  dead  man's  slumbers. 

And  a  blast,  upon  the  air, 

From  the  heights  came  flying — 
Was  the  dead  postillion  there 

To  his  songs  replying  1 

On  again,  and  faster  still, 

On  the  good  steeds  bounded, — 
Long  that  echo  from  the  hill 

In  my  ear  resounded. 

NICOLAUS  LENAU  (German).    Translation  of  C.  T.  BROOKS. 


280  Poems  of  Sentiment. 


TO 


METHINKS  it  were  no  pain  to  die 
On  such  an  eve,  when  such  a  sky 

O'ercanopies  the  west  ; 
To  gaze  my  till  on  yon  calm  deep, 
And,  like  an  infant,  fall  asleep 

On  earth,  my  mother's  breast. 

There's  peace  and  welcome  in  yon  sea 
Of  endless  blue  tranquillity  ; 

The  clouds  are  living  things  ; 
I  trace  their  veins  of  liquid  gold, 
I  see  them  solemnly  unfold 

Their  soft  and  fleecy  wings. 

These  be  the  angels  that  convey 
Us  weary  children  of  a  day,  — 

Life's  tedious  nothing  o'er,  — 
Where  neither  passions  come,  nor  woes, 
To  vex  the  genius  of  repose 

On  Death's  majestic  shore. 

No  darkness  there  divides  the  sway 
"With  startling  dawn  and  dazzling  day  ; 

But  gloriously  serene 
Are  the  interminable  plains  ;  — 
One  fixed,  eternal  sunset  reigns 

O'er  the  wide,  silent  scene. 

I  cannot  doff  all  human  fear  ; 
I  know  thy  greeting  is  severe 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  281 

To  this  poor  shell  of  clay ; 
Yet  conie,  O  Death  !  thy  freezing  kiss 
Emancipates  !  thy  rest  is  bliss  ! 

I  would  I  were  away. 

AUTHOR  UNKNOWN  (German). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


THE  FAIREST  THING  IJV  MORTAL  ET&S. 

To  make  my  lady's  obsequies 

My  love  a  minster  wrought ; 
And,  in  the  chantry,  service  there 

Was  sung  by  doleful  thought. 
The  tapers  were  of  burning  sighs, 

That  light  and  odor  gave  ; 
And  sorrows,  painted  o'er  with  tears, 

Enlumined  her  grave ; 
And  round  about,  in  quaintest  guise, 
Was  carved  :  "  Within  this  tomb  there  lies 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes." 

Above  her  lieth  spread  a  tomb, 

Of  gold  and  sapphires  blue  : 
The  gold  doth  show  her  blessedness, 

The  sapphires  mark  her  true ; 
For  blessedness  and  truth  in  her 

Were  livelily  portrayed, 
When  gracious  God  with  both  his  hands 

Her  goodly  substance  made. 
He  framed  her  in  such  wondrous  wise, 
She  was,  to  speak  without  disguise, 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes. 

No  more,  no  more !  my  heart  doth  faint 

When  I  the  life  recall 
24 


282  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

Of  her  who  lived  so  free  from  taint, 

So  virtuous  deemed  by  all, 
That  in  herself  was  so  complete, 

I  think  that  she  was  ta'en 
By  God  to  deck  his  paradise, 

And  with  his  saints  to  reign  ; 
Whom,  while  on  earth,  each  one  did  prize 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes. 

But  naught  our  tears  avail,  or  cries : 
All  soon  or  late  in  death  shall  sleep ; 
Nor  living  wight  long  time  may  keep 

The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes. 

CHARLES,  DUKE  OF  ORLEANS, 

Translation  of  HENRY  FRANCIS  GARY. 


CHIL3) 


SWEET  babe  !  true  portrait  of  thy  father's  face 
Sleep  on  the  bosom  that  thy  lips  have  pressed  ! 

Sleep,  little  one  ;  and  closely,  gently  place 
Thy  drowsy  eyelid  on  thy  mother's  breast  ! 

Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 

Soft  sleep  shall  come,  that  cometh  not  to  me  ! 

I  watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend  ;  — 
'Tis  sweet  to  watch  for  thee,  —  alone  for  thee  ! 

His  arms  fall  down  ;  sleep  sits  upon  his  brow  ; 

His  eye  is  closed  ;  he  sleeps,  nor  dreams  of  harm  ; 
Wore  not  his  cheek  the  apple's  ruddy  glow, 

Would  you  not  say  he  slept  on  Death's  cold  arm  1 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  283 

Awake,  my  boy  ! — I  tremble  with  affright ! — 
Awake,  and  chase  this  fatal  thought ! — Unclose 

Thine  eye,  but  for  one  moment,  on  the  light ! 
Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me  repose ! 

Sweet  error  ! — he  but  slept, — I  breathe  again ; — 
Come,  gentle  dreams,  the  hour  of  sleep  beguile  ! 

O,  when  shall  he,  for  whom  I  sigh  in  vain, 
Beside  me  watch  to  see  thy  waking  smile  ? 

CLOTILDE  DE  SURVILLK  (French). 

Translation  of  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


WHERE  are  my  days  of  youth, — those  fairy  days, 
Breathing  of  life,  and  strangers  yet  to  pain, — 
When  inspiration  kindled  to  a  blaze 

The  rapture  of  the  heart  and  brain  ? 

Then  nature  was  my  kingdom ;  and  I  stood 

Rich  in  the  wealth  of  all  beneath  the  pole ; 
An  antique  rock,  a  torrent,  or  a  wood, 
Awaked  the  transport  of  my  soul. 

When  the  young  Spring  her  rosy  arms  outspread, 

And  ice-flakes  melted  from  the  green-tipped  spray, 
How  rich  the  change  !  what  magic  hues  were  shed 
On  tribes  of  flowers  that  laughed  in  day  ! 

Thou,  too,  black  Winter,  hadst  a  charm  for  me ; 
Thou  held'st  high  festival :  thy  storms  arose, 
Delightsome  in  their  horrid  revelry 

Of  hail-blasts,  hurricanes,  and  snows. 


284  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

How  have  I  loved  to  see  the  radiance  run 
O'er  the  calm  ocean  from  an  azure  sky ; 
Or  on  the  liquid  world  the  evening  sun 
Gaze  down  with  burning  eye  ! 

Yet  dearer  were  thy  shores,  when,  blackening  round, 

Thy  waves,  0  Sea,  rolled,  gathering  from  afar ; 
And  all  the  waste  in  pompous  horror  frowned, 
As  storm-lashed  surges  strove  in  war. 

Jura  !  thou  throne  of  tempests  !  many  a  time 

My  love  has  sought  thee  in  the  musing  hour ; 
Oft  was  I  wont  thy  topmost  ridge  to  climb, 
Thy  fir-tree  depths  my  shadowing  bower. 

How,  when  I  saw  thy  lofty  scenes  unfold, 

My  soul  sprang  forth,  transported  at  the  sight ! 
Enthusiasm  there  shook  its  wings  of  gold, 
And  bore  me  up  from  height  to  height. 

My  bounding  step  o'ervaulted  summits  high, 

Where  resting  clouds  had  checked  their  soaring  pride ; 
And  my  foot  seemed  in  hovering  speed  to  vie 
With  eagles  swooping  at  my  side. 

0,  then  with  what  enamored  touch  I  drew 

Thy  pencilled  outlines  desolate  and  grand  ! 
Vast  ice  rifts  !  ancient  crags  !  your  wonders  grew 
Beneath  my  recreating  hand. 

All  was  enchantment  then ;  but  they  depart, 

Those  days  so  beautiful,  when  the  bright  flame 
From  unveiled  genius  shot  within  my  heart 
The  noble  pang  of  fame. 

CHABLES  DE  CHEXEDOLL|:  (French). 

Translation  in  LONDON  MAGAZINE. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  285 


RECOLLECTION. 

I  FEARED  to  suffer,  though  I  hoped  to  weep 
In  seeing  thee  again,  thou  hallowed  ground, 
Where  ever  dear  remembrance  for  her  sleep 
A  tomb  has  found. 

Friends,  in  this  solitude  what  did  you  dread, 
Why  did  ye  seek  my  footsteps  to  restrain, 
When  sweet  and  ancient  custom  hither  led 
My  feet  again  ? 

Here  are  these  haunts  beloved,  the  flow'ry  waste, 
The  silvery  footprints  on  the  silent  sand, 
The  paths,  where  lost  in  love-talk  sweet  we  paced, 
Hand  locked  in  hand. 

Here  are  the  pine-trees  with  their  sombre  green, 
The  deep  ravine,  with  rocky,  winding  ways, 
Lulled  by  whose  ancient  murmurs  I  have  seen 
Such  happy  days. 

Here  are  the  thickets,  where  my  joyous  youth 
Sings  like  a  choir  of  birds  in  every  tree ; 
Sweet  wilds,  that  saw  my  mistress  pass,  in  sooth 
Looked  ye  for  me  1 

Nay,  let  them  flow,  for  they  are  precious  tears, 
The  tears  that  from  a  heart  unhardened  rise, 
Nor  brush  away  this  mist  of  bygone  years 
From  off  mine  eyes  ! 

I  shall  not  wake  with  vain  and  bitter  cry 
The  echo  of  these  woods,  where  I  was  blest ; 
Proud  is  the  forest  in  its  beauty  high, 
Proud  is  my  breast. 


286  Poems  of  Sentiment. 


Let  him  devote  himself  to  endless  woes 
Who  kneels  alone  beside  a  loved  one's  tomb ; 
But  here  all  breathes  of  life,  the  churchyard  rose 
Here  does  not  bloom. 

And  lo  !  the  moon  is  rising  through  the  shades ; 
Her  glance  still  trembles,  "  beauteous  queen  of  night"; 
But  all  the  dark  horizon  she  pervades 
With  growing  light. 

As  all  the  perfumes  of  the  buried  day 
Kise  from  this  soil,  still  humid  with  the  rain, 
So  from  my  softened  breast,  beneath  her  ray, 
Kises  my  love  again. 

Whither  have  fled  the  griefs  that  made  me  old  ? 
Vanished  is  all  that  vexed  my  life  before, 
I  grow,  as  I  this  friendly  vale  behold, 
A  child  once  more. 

O  fatal  power  of  time  !  0  fleeting  hours  ! 
Our  tears,  our  cries,  our  vain  regrets  ye  hush, 
But  pity  moves  you,  and  our  faded  flowers 
Ye  do  not  crush. 

ALFRED  DE  MUSSET  (French). 

Translation  of  8.  B.  WISTER. 


THE   WISE  MAJV  SEES  HIS 
CLOSE. 


THE  wise  man  sees  his  winter  close 
Like  evening  on  a  summer  day  ; 

Each  age,  he  knows,  its  roses  bears, 
Its  mournful  moments  and  its  gay. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  287 

Thus  would  I  dwell  with  pleasing  thought 

Upon  my  spring  of  youthful  pride ; 
Yet,  like  the  festive  dancer,  glad 

To  rest  in  peace  at  eventide. 

The  gazing  crowds  proclaimed  me  fair, 

Ere,  autumn-touched,  my  green  leaves  fell : 

And  now  they  smile,  and  call  me  good  ; 
Perhaps  I  like  that  name  as  well. 

On  beauty  bliss  depends  not ;  then 
Why  should  I  quarrel  with  old  Time  1 

He  marches  on  : — how  vain  his  power 
With  one  whose  heart  is  in  its  prime  ! 

Though  now,  perhaps,  a  little  old, 

Yet  still  I  love  with  youth  to  bide ; 
Nor  grieve  I,  if  the  gay  coquettes 

Seduce  the  gallants  from  my  side. 

And  I  can  joy  to  see  the  nymphs 

For  favorite  swains  their  chaplets  twine, 

In  gardens  trim  and  bowers  so  green, 
With  flowerets  sweet  and  eglantine. 

I  love  to  see  a  pair  defy 

The  noontide  heat  in  yonder  shade ; 
To  hear  the  village  song  of  love 

Sweet  echoing  through  the  woodland  glade. 

I  joy,  too, — though  the  idle  crew 

Mock  somewhat  at  my  lengthened  tale, — 

To  see  how  lays  of  ancient  loves 
The  listening  circle  round  regale. 


288  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

They  fancy  time  for  them  stands  still, 

And  pity  me  my  hairs  of  gray ; 
And  smile  to  hear  how  once  their  sires 

To  me  could  kneeling  homage  pay. 

And  I,  too,  smile,  to  gaze  upon 

These  butterflies  in  youth  elate, 
So  heedless,  sporting  round  the  flame 

Where  thousand  such  have  met  their  fate. 

BARBE  DE  VERRUE  (French). 

Tratislation  of  E.  TAYLOR. 


TOVJYG   MATftOJV  AMOJVG    THE 
'RUIJVS  Of 


THROUGH  Home's  green  plains  with  silent  tread 

I  wandered,  and  on  every  side, 
O'er  all  the  glorious  soil,  I  read 

The  nothingness  of  human  pride. 

Where  reared  the  Capitol  its  brow, 
Entranced  I  gazed  on  desert  glades, 

And  saw  the  tangled  herbage  grow, 

And  brambles  crawl  o'er  crushed  arcades. 

Beneath  a  portal,  half-disclosed, 

By  its  own  ruins  earthward  pressed, 

A  young  Italian  wife  reposed, 

Mild,  blooming,  with  her  babe  at  breast. 

O'er  that  drear  scene  she  breathed  a  grace, 

And  near  her  I  inquiring  drew, 
And  asked  her  of  that  lonely  place, 

The  old  traditions  that  she  knew. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  289 

"  Stranger  ! "  she  softly  said,  "  I  grieve 

Thy  question  must  unanswered  be ; 
These  ruins, — I  should  but  deceive, 

Did  I  rehearse  their  history. 

"  Some  defter  tongue,  some  wiser  head, 
May  know,  and  can  instruct  thee  right ; 

I  thought  not  whither  I  was  led, 

And  scarce  the  pile  had  caught  my  sight." 

Thus,  wrapped  in  tenderness  alone, 

Joy's  innocence  becalmed  her  brow ; 
She  loved  ! — no  other  knowledge  known, 

She  lived  not  in  the  past,  but  now. 

CHARLES  DE  CHENEDOLLE  (French). 

Translation  in  LONDON  MAGAZINE. 


SOJYG. 

Dear  the  felicity, 

Gentle,  and  fair,  and  sweet, 
Love  and  simplicity 

When  tender  shepherds  meet : 
Better  than  store  of  gold, 
Silver  and  gems  untold, 
Manners  refined  and  cold, 

Which  to  our  lords  belong. 
We,  when  our  toil  is  past, 
Softest  delight  can  taste, 
While  summer's  beauties  last, 

Dance,  feast,  and  jocund  song ; 
And  in  our  hearts  a  joy 
No  envy  can  destroy. 

MARTIAL  DE  PARIS  (French). 

Translation  of  LOUISA  STUART  COSTELLO. 
25 


290  Poems  of  Sentiment. 


I  LIVE  in  hopes  of  better  days, 

And  leave  the  present  hour  to  chance, 
Although  so  long  my  wish  delays, 

And  still  recedes  as  I  advance : 
Although  hard  fortune,  too  severe, 

My  life  in  mourning  weeds  arrays, 
Nor  in  gay  haunts  may  I  appear, 

I  live  in  hopes  of  better  days. 

Though  constant  care  my  portion  prove, 

By  long  endurance  patient  grown, 
Still  with  the  time  my  wishes  move, 

Within  my  breast  no  murmur  known : 
Whate'er  my  adverse  lot  displays, 
I  live  in  hopes  of  better  days. 

CHRISTINE  DE  PISAN  (French). 

Translation  of  LOUISA  STCART  COSTELLQ 


MT  OL3)  COAT. 

STILL  to  my  back,  old  trusty  coat,  be  true  ! 

Dear  to  my  heart,  for  both  are  growing  old ; 
Ten  years  have  flown  since  fresh  in  cut  and  hue, 

I  brushed  thee  first,  and  still  the  brush  I  hold. 
What  though  thy  threadbare  texture  suffers  wrong 

From  the  rude  insults  of  the  time  and  weather, 
Be  thou  like  me — we'll  calmly  go  along — 

Mine  ancient  friend,  we  still  will  stick  together. 

Now  busy  Memory  brings  again  the  time 

When  in  thy  glossy  brightness  first  I  wore  thee ; 


Poems  of  Sentiment. 


It  was  my  birthday  morn — in  joyous  rhyme 
My  merry  comrades  sung  their  praises  o'er  thee. 

Their  hearts  are  still  as  warm,  their  hands  as  true, 
(Though  thou  art  rusty  now  and  out  of  feather,) 

As  on  that  festal  morn,  when  thou  wert  new — 
Mine  ancient  friend,  oh !  let  us  stick  together. 

I  smile  whene'er  thy  patched-up  skirt  I  view, 

A  sweet  remembrance  to  my  soul  it  brings, — 
Komping  with  Lise,  I  sipped  her  lips  of  dew, 

And  feigned  to  fly ;  she  fondly  to  thee  clings, 
And  thou  art  torn ;  but  Lise  with  ready  wit 

The  rent  repairs,  while  I,  like  lamb  to  tether, 
Two  days  beside  the  ingenious  seamstress  sit — 

Mine  ancient  friend,  for  that  we'll  stick  together. 

Thou  ne'er  hast  known  of  costly  musk  or  amber 

Which  fops  exhale  while  peacock-like  they  strut ; 
Ne'er  wert  thou  seen  in  noble's  antechamber : 

For  courtiers'  jests  thou  hast  not  been  a  butt. 
While  France  for  ribands  fought,  a  tyrant's  dole — 

A  modest  flower,  the  pride  of  summer  weather, 
Bloomed  at  thy  unpretending  button-hole — 

Mine  ancient  friend,  so  let  us  stick  together. 

Still  let  us  life's  weak  vanities  disdain, 

Those  gaudy  days  which  both  of  us  enjoyed  : 
Days  whose  fair  sunshine  clouded  was  by  rain, 

Whose  rapturous  zest  by  sorrow  was  alloyed. 
Soon  will  the  time  arrive  when  we  must  part, 

When  I  must  silent  sleep  beneath  the  heather ; 
But  while  life's  current  flows  within  my  heart, 

Mine  ancient  friend,  oh,  we  will  stick  together ! 

PIERRE  JEAN  DE  BERANGER  (French). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


292  Poems  of  Sentiment. 


S Eft  ft  ANA. 

I  NE'ER  on  the  border 

Saw  girl  fair  as  Kosa, 
The  charming  niilk-maiden 

Of  sweet  Finojosa. 

Once  making  a  journey 

To  Santa  Maria 
Of  Calataveno, 

From  weary  desire 
Of  sleep,  down  a  valley 

I  strayed,  where  young  Rosa 
I  saw,  the  milk-maiden 

Of  lone  Finojosa. 

In  a  pleasant  green  meadow, 

'Midst  roses  and  grasses, 
Her  herd  she  was  tending, 

With  other  fair  lasses ; 
So  lovely  her  aspect, 

I  could  not  suppose  her 
A  simple  milk -maiden 

Of  rude  Finojosa. 

I  think  not  primroses 

Have  half  her  smile's  sweetness, 
Or  mild,  modest  beauty ; — 

I  speak  with  discreetness. 
Oh,  had  I  beforehand 

But  known  of  this  Eosa, 
The  handsome  milk-maiden 

Of  far  Finojosa, — 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  293 

Her  very  great  beauty 

Had  not  so  subdued, 
Because  it  had  left  me 

To  do  as  I  would  ! 
I  have  said  more,  0  fair  one, 

By  learning  't  was  Kosa, 
The  charming  milk-maiden 

Of  sweet  Finojosa. 

MABQUIS  DE  SANTILLANA  (Spanish). 

Translation  of  T.  ROSCOE. 

O2)E  TO  SLEE5P. 

SWEET  Sleep,  that  through  the  starry  path  of  night, 

With  dewy  poppies  crowned,  pursu'st  thy  flight ! 

Stiller  of  human  woes, 

That  shedd'st  o'er  Nature's  breast  a  soft  repose  ! 

Oh,  to  these  distant  climates  of  the  West 

Thy  slowly  wandering  pinions  turn ; 

And  with  thy  influence  blest 

Bathe  these  love-burdened  eyes,  that  ever  burn 

And  find  no  moment's  rest, 

While  my  unceasing  grief 

Refuses  all  relief ! 

O,  hear  my  prayer !  I  ask  it  by  thy  love, 

Whom  Juno  gave  thee  in  the  realms  above. 

Sweet  power,  that  dost  impart 

Gentle  oblivion  to  the  suffering  heart, 

Beloved  Sleep,  thou  only  canst  bestow 

A  solace  for  my  woe  ! 

Thrice  happy  be  the  hour 

My  weary  limbs  shall  feel  thy  sovereign  power ! 

Why  to  these  eyes  alone  deny 

The  calm  thou  pour'st  on  Nature's  boundless  reign  ? 


294  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

Why  let  thy  votary  all  neglected  die, 

Nor  yield  a  respite  to  a  lover's  pain  1 

And  must  I  ask  thy  balmy  aid  in  vain  ? 

Hear,  gentle  power,  Oh,  hear  my  humble  prayer, 

And  let  my  soul  thy  heavenly  banquet  share  ! 

In  this  extreme  of  grief,  I  own  thy  might ; 

Descend,  and  shed  thy  healing  dew ; 

Descend,  and  put  to  flight 

The  intruding  Dawn,  that  with  her  garish  light 

My  sorrows  would  renew  ! 

Thou  hear'st  my  sad  lament,  and  in  my  face 

My  many  griefs  may'st  trace  : 

Turn,  then,  sweet  wanderer  of  the  night,  and  spread 

Thy  wings  around  my  head  ! 

Haste,  for  the  unwelcome  Morn 

Is  now  on  her  return  ! 

Let  the  soft  rest  the  hours  of  night  denied 

Be  by  thy  lenient  hand  supplied ! 

Fresh  from  my  summer  bowers, 

A  crown  of  soothing  flowers,    . 

Such  as  thou  lov'st,  the  fairest  and  the  best, 

I  offer  thee ;  won  by  their  odors  sweet, 

The  enamored  air  shall  greet 

Thy  advent :  Oh,  then,  let  thy  hand 

Express  their  essence  bland, 

And  o'er  my  eyelids  pour  delicious  rest ! 

Enchanting  power,  soft  as  the  breath  of  Spring 

Be  the  light  gale  that  steers  thy  dewy  wing ! 

Come,  ere  the  sun  ascends  the  purple  east, — 

Come,  end  my  woes  !    So,  crowned  with  heavenly  charms, 

May  fair  Pasithea  take  thee  to  her  arms ! 

FERNANDO  DE  HEBRERA  (Spanish). 

Translation  of  T.  ROSCOE, 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  295 


HOL3)  SWJZET 

"  LET  's  hold  sweet  converse,  ere  we  part, 

Beloved  fair !"     "  'Tis  sweet  to  be 
With  thee,  the  husband  of  my  heart !" 

"  I'll  in  the  garden  wait  for  thee." 
"  When  ?"     "  At  the  sacred  vesper-bell." 
"  That  is  the  hour  in  which  I  dwell 
Within  the  souls  I  love,  and  there 
Fill  the  pure  shrine  with  praise  and  prayer." 
"  But  if,  when  dawns  the  vesper  hour, 

I  should  be  absent "     "  Nay,  my  soul ! 

Lose  not  the  holy,  hallowing  power 

Of  evening's  serene  control !" 
"  I'll  come ; — that  hour  shall  not  depart 
Without  thy  smile  who  hold'st  my  heart !" 
"  I'll  in  the  garden  wait  for  thee." 

"  When  ?"     "  At  the  sacred  vesper-bell." 
"  Yes,  come  !  Oh,  come  ! — my  breast  shall  be 
A  garden  of  fair  flowers  for  thee, 

Where  thou  the  fairest  flowers  shalt  cull." 
"  And  wilt  thou  give  a  flower  to  me  ?" 

"  Yes  !  flowers  more  bright,  more  beautiful, 
Than  ever  in  earth's  gardens  grew, 
If  thou  wilt  trust  and  love  me  too." 

"  Yes  !  I  will  trust  and  love  thee  well !  " 
"  I'll  in  the  garden  wait  for  thee." 

"  When  ?"     "  At  the  sacred  vesper-bell." 

ALONSO  DE  BONILLA  (Spanish). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWEING. 


296  Poems  of  Sentiment. 


MIGHT  Of  OJVJ?  FAI3Z  FACE. 

THE  might  of  one  fair  face  sublimes  my  love, 

For  it  hath  weaned  my  heart  from  low  desires  ; 

Nor  death  I  need,  nor  purgatorial  fires  : 

Thy  beauty,  antepast  of  joys  above, 

Instructs  me  in  the  bliss  that  saints  approve  ; 

For  oh,  how  good,  how  beautiful,  must  be 

The  God  that  made  so  good  a  thing  as  thee, 

So  fair  an  image  of  the  heavenly  Dove  ! 

Forgive  me  if  I  cannot  turn  away 

From  those  sweet  eyes  that  are  my  earthly  heaven, 

For  they  are  guiding  stars,  benignly  given 

To  tempt  my  footsteps  to  the  upward  way  ; 

And  if  I  dwell  too  fondly  in  thy  sight, 

I  live  and  love  in  God's  peculiar  light. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  (Italian). 

Translation  of  HARTLEY  COLERIDGE. 

THE  GEJYTZE  SOUL. 


YE  gentle  souls  !  ye  love-devoted  fair  ! 

Who,  passing  by,  to  Pity's  voice  incline, 
0  stay  awhile  and  hear  me  !  then  declare 

If  there  was  ever  grief  that  equals  mine. 

There  was  a  woman  to  whose  sacred  breast 

Faith  had  retired,  where  Honor  fixed  his  throne  ; 

Pride,  though  upheld  by  Virtue,  she  represt  : 
Ye  gentle  souls  !  that  woman  was  my  own. 

Beauty  was  more  than  beauty  in  her  face  ; 

Grace  was  in  all  she  did,  in  all  she  said  — 
In  sorrow  as  in  pleasure  there  was  grace  : 

Ye  gentle  souls  !  that  gentle  soul  is  fled. 

FRANCESCO  BEDI  (Italian).     Translation  of  WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  297 


"  MAIDS  of  these  Mils  so  fair  and  gay, 
Say  whence  you  come,  and  whither  stray." 

"  From  yonder  heights ;  our  lowly  shed 

Those  clumps  that  rise  so  green  disclose ; 

There,  by  our  simple  parents  bred, 
We  share  their  blessing  and  repose ; 
Now,  evening  from  the  flowery  close 

Recalls,  where  late  our  flocks  we  fed." 

"  Ah,  tell  me  in  what  region  grew 

Such  fruits,  transcending  all  compare  ? 

Methinks,  I  Love's  own  offspring  view, 
Such  graces  deck  your  shape  and  air ; 
Nor  gold  nor  diamonds  glitter  there ; 

Mean  your  attire,  but  angels  you. 

"  Yet  well  such  beauties  might  repine 
'Mid  desert  hills  and:  vales  to  bloom ; 

"What  scenes,  where  pride  and  splendor  shine, 
Would  not  your  brighter  charms  become  ? 
But  say, — with  this  your  Alpine  home, 

Can  ye,  content,  such  bliss  resign  ?" 

"Far  happier  we  our  fleecy  care 
Trip  lightly  after  to  the  mead, 

Than,  pent  in  city  walls,  your  fair 
Foot  the  gay  dance  in  silks  arrayed : 
Nor  wish  have  we,  save  who  should  braid 

With  gayest  wreaths  her  flowing  hair." 

ANGELO  POLIZIANO  (Italian). 

Translation  of  W.  PARR  GRISWELL. 


298  Poems  of  Sentiment. 


CANZONE,   WRITTEN  IJV 

THE  love  of  song  what  can  impart 
To  the  lone  captive's  sinking  heart  1 
Thou  Sun  !  thou  fount  divine 
Of  light !  the  gift  is  thine  ! 

Oh,  how,  beyond  the  gloom 

That  wraps  my  living  tomb, 

Through  forest,  garden,  mead,  and  grove, 

All  nature  drinks  the  ray 

Of  glorious  day, — 

Inebriate  with  love ! 

The  jocund  torrents  flow 

To  distant  worlds  that  owe 

Their  life  to  thee  ! 

And  if  a  slender  ray 

Chance  through  my  bars  to  stray, 

And  pierce  to  me, 

My  cell,  no  more  a  tomb, 

Smiles  in  its  caverned  gloom, — 

As  nature  to  the  free  ! 

If  scarce  thy  bounty  yields 
To  these  ungenial  fields 
The  gift  divine, 
Oh,  shed  thy  blessings  here, 
Now  while  in  dungeon  drear 
Italians  pine  ! 

Thy  splendors  faintly  known, 
Slavonia  may  not  own 


Poems  of  Sentiment,  299 

For  thee  the  love 
Our  hearts  must  move, 
Who  from  our  cradle  learn 
To  adore  thee,  and  to  yearn 
"With  passionate  desire 
(Our  nature's  fondest  prayer, 
Needful  as  vital  air) 
To  see  thee,  or  expire. 

Beneath  my  native,  distant  sky, 
The  captive's  sire  and  mother  sigh ; 
Oh,  never  there  may  darkling  cloud 
With  veil  of  circling  horror  shroud 
The  rising  day ; 

But  thy  warm  heams,  still  glowing  bright, 
Enchant  their  hearts  with  joyous  light, 
And  charm  their  grief  away  ! 

SILVIO  PELLICO  (Italian). 

Translation  in  KNICKERBOCKER. 


THE  FAIft  fRISOJYJSft  TO  THE  SWALLOW. 

PILGRIM  swallow  !  pilgrim  swallow  ! 

Thou  that  sitt'st  by  yonder  stair, 
Singing,  as  the  mornings  follow, 

Quaint  and  pensive  ditties  there,- 
What  would'st  tell  me  in  thy  lay  1 
Prithee,  pilgrim  swallow,  say ! 

All  forgotten,  com'st  thou  hither 

Of  thy  tender  spouse  forlorn, 
That  we  two  may  grieve  together, 

Little  widow,  sorrow  worn? 
Grieve  then,  weep  then,  in  thy  lay ! 
Pilgrim  swallow,  grieve  alway  ! 


300  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

Yet  a  lighter  woe  thou  weepest : 

Thou  at  least  art  free  of  wing, 
And,  while  land  and  lake  thou  sweepest, 

Mayst  make  Heaven  with  sorrow  ring, 
Calling  his  dear  name  alway, 
Pilgrim  swallow,  in  thy  lay. 

Could  I  too  !  that  am  forbidden 

By  this  low  and  narrow  cell, 
Whence  the  sun's  fair  light  is  hidden, 

Whence  thou  scarce  canst  hear  me  tell 
Sorrows  that  I  breathe  alway, 
While  thou  pip'st  thy  plaintive  lay. 

Ah  !  September  quickly  coming, 

Thou  shalt  take  farewell  of  me, 
And,  to  other  summers  roaming, 

Other  hills  and  waters  see, — 
Greeting  them  with  songs  more  gay, 
Pilgrim  swallow,  far  away. 

Still,  with  every  hopeless  morrow, 

While  I  ope  mine  eyes  in  tears, 
Sweetly  through  my  brooding  sorrow 

Thy  dear  song  shall  reach  mine  ears, — 
Pitying  me,  though  far  away, 
Pilgrim  swallow,  in  thy  lay. 

Thou,  when  thou  and  Spring  together 
Here  return,  a  cross  shalt  see, — 

In  the  pleasant  evening  weather 
Wheel  and  pipe,  here,  over  me  ! 

Peace  and  peace  !  the  coming  May, 

Sing  me  in  thy  roundelay  ! " 

TOMMASO  GROSSI  (Italian).     Translation  of  W.  D.  HOWELLS. 


Poems  of  Sentiment,  301 


MAVRIGAZ. 

DEAR  is  the  blush  of  early  light 

To  him  who  ploughs  the  pathless  deep, 

When  winds  have  rav'd  throughout  the  night, 
And  roaring  tempests  banish'd  sleep — 

Dear  is  the  dawn,  which  springs  at  last, 

And  shows  him  all  his  peril  past. 

Dearer  to  me  the  break  of  day, 

Which  thus  thy  bended  eye  illumes ; 

And,  chasing  fear  and  doubt  away, 
Scatters  the  night  of  mental  glooms, 

And  bids  my  spirit  hope  at  last 

A  rich  reward  for  peril  past ! 

Luis  DE  CAMOENS  (Portuguese). 

Translation  of  LORD  STRANGFORD. 


3)  AT  HAS   SMILE3)  A    SOFT 


WHEN  day  has  smiled  a  soft  farewell, 
And  night-drops  bathe  each  shutting  bell, 
And  shadows  sail  along  the  green, 
And  birds  are  still  and  winds  serene, 

I  wander  silently. 

And  while  my  lone  step  prints  the  dew, 
Dear  are  the  dreams  that  bless  my  view, 
To  memory's  eye  the  maid  appears 
For  whom  have  sprung  my  sweetest  tears, 
So  oft,  so  tenderly. 


302  Poems  of  Sentiment. 

I  see  her,  as  with  graceful  care 
She  binds  her  braids  of  sunny  hair ; 
I  feel  her  harp's  melodious  thrill 
Strike  to  my  heart — and  thence  be  still 

Ee-echo'd  faithfully ; 

I  meet  her  mild  and  quiet  eye, 
Drink  the  warm  spirit  of  her  sigh, 
See  young  Love  beating  in  her  breast 
And  wish  to  mine  its  pulses  prest, 

God  knows  how  fervently  ! 

Such  are  my  hours  of  dear  delight, 
And  morn  but  makes  me  long  for  night, 
And  think  how  swift  the  minutes  flew, 
When  last  amongst  the  dropping  dew, 

I  wandered  silently. 

Luis  DE  CAMOENS  (Portuguese). 

Translation  of  LORD  STBANGFOKD. 


O2)E  TO 

SWEET  sleep !  sure  man  might  learn  to  die  from  thee 
"Who  dost  unravel  all  death's  mystery ; 
Come,  spread  thy  balmy  influence  o'er  my  soul, 
And  let  it  soar,  beyond  the  world's  control, 
Up  to  the  realms  where  morning  has  its  birth, 
Down  to  the  abyss  whence  darkness  wraps  the  earth. 
"Where  time  has  piled  its  everlasting  snows, 
Where,  parched  by  sunbeams,  not  a  fountain  flows : 
0  let  it  count  each  bright  and  wandering  star, 
Or  trace  its  mazy  pilgrimage  afar ; 
Sit  in  the  centre,  while  each  circling  sphere 
Pours  its  aerial  nmsic  on  the  ear ; 


Poems  of  Sentiment.  303 

Drink  of  the  o'erflowing  cup  of  joy  and  peace, 
While  the  tired  body  sleeps  in  weariness ; 
No  dreams  to  hang  upon  its  mortal  breath : — 
And  so — undying — let  it  taste  of  death. 

JOHN  KOCHANOWSKI  (Polish). 

Translation  of  fern  JOHN  BOWBING. 


MOULD  thee  of  brightest  dreams  an  airy  creature, 

The  loveliest  soul  in  loveliest  body  dress ; 

Bid  beauty  overflow  from  every  feature, 

But  mind  uplift  them  from  earth's  narrowness ; 

Let  the  eye  flash  with  light  from  heaven,  and  love 

Mingle  the  tenderness  of  earthly  care ; 

And  the  tall  forehead  tower  erect,  above 

Those  smiling  lips  that  breathe  such  odors  fair ; 

Bind  living  garlands  round  the  snowy  brow, 

With  flowers  from  every  stem  and  every  sphere — 

Flowers  gay  and  various  as  the  Iris-bow, 

And  let  that  form  pour  music  on  the  ear, 

And,  sweet  Slavonian  song,  thou  hast  array'd 

In  shadowy  dreams  a  true  Slavonian  maid. 

JOHN  KOLLAR  (Bohemian). 

Translation  of  SIB  JOHN  BOWBING. 


MORAL 

AND 

DIDACTIC     POEMS. 


A.  FRAGMENT. 

THE  man  who  boasts  of  golden  stores, 
Of  grain  that  loads  his  groaning  floors, 
Of  fields  with  freshening  herbage  green, 
Where  bounding  steeds  and  herds  are  seen, 
I  call  not  happier  than  the  swain, 
Whose  limbs  are  sound,  whose  food  is  plain, 
Whose  joys  a  blooming  wife  endears, 
Whose  hours  a  smiling  offspring  cheers. 

SOLON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  LANGHORNE. 


EQ  77AJYIMITT. 

SPIRIT,  thou  Spirit,  like  a  troubled  sea, 
Kuffled  with  deep  and  hard  calamity, 
Sustain  the  shock  :  a  daring  heart  oppose  : 
Stand  firm,  amidst  the  charging  spears  of  foes : 
If  conquering,  vaunt  not  in  vain-glorious  show ; 
If  conquer'd,  stoop  not,  prostrated  in  woe  : 
Moderate,  in  joy,  rejoice ;  in  sorrow,  mourn  : 
Muse  on  man's  lot :  be  thine  discreetly  borne. 

ABCHILOCHUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  305 


JUSTICE. 

SHORT  are  the  triumphs  to  injustice  given,  — 

Jove  sees  the  end  of  all  ;  like  vapors  driven 

By  early  Spring's  impetuous  blast,  that  sweeps 

Along  the  billowy  surface  of  the  deeps, 

Or,  passing  o'er  the  fields  of  tender  green, 

Lays  in  sad  ruin  all  the  lovely  scene, 

Till  it  reveals  the  clear  celestial  blue, 

And  gives  the  palace  of  the  gods  to  view  ; 

Then  bursts  the  sun's  full  radiance  from  the  skies, 

Where  not  a  cloud  can  form  or  vapor  rise  ; 

.....  Such  is  Jove's  vengeance  :  not  like  human  ire, 

Blown  in  an  instant  to  a  scorching  fire, 

But  slow  and  certain  ;  though  it  long  may  lie, 

Wrapt  in  the  vast  concealment  of  the  sky  ; 

Yet  never  does  the  dread  Avenger  sleep, 

And  though  the  sire  escape  the  son  shall  weep. 

SOLON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALK. 


VIRTUE  in  legend  old  is  said  to  dwell 

On  high  rocks,  inaccessible  ; 

But  swift  descends  from  high, 
And  haunts  of  virtuous  men  the  ckaste  society. 

No  man  shall  ever  rise, 
Conspicuous  in  his  fellow-mortal's  eyes, 

To  manly  virtue's  pinnacle  ; 

Unless  within  his  soul  he  bear 
The  drops  of  painful  sweat,  that  slowly  well 
From  spirit-  wasting  thought,  and  toil,  and  care. 

SIMONIDES  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 
26 


306  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 


WO'RTH. 


FROM   THE   THIRD   NEMEAN. 

GREAT  is  the  power  of  inbred  nobleness  : 
But  he,  that  all  he  hath  to  schooling  owes, 
A  shallow  wight  obscure, 
Plants  not  his  step  secure  ; 
Feeding  vain  thoughts  on  phantoms  numberless, 
Of  genuine  excellence  mere  outward  shows. 

In  Phillyra's  house,  a  flaxen  boy, 
Achilles  oft  in  rapturous  joy 
His  feats  of  strength  essay'd. 
Aloof,  like  wind,  his  little  javelin  flew  ; 
The  lion  and  the  brindled  boar  he  slew, 
Then  homeward  to  old  Chiron  drew 
Their  panting  carcasses. 
This,  when  six  years  had  fled. 
And  all  the  after  time 
Of  his  rejoicing  prime, 
It  was  to  Dian  and  the  blue-eyed  maid 
A  wonder  how  he  brought  to  ground 
The  stag  without  or  toils  or  hound  : 
So  fleet  of  foot  was  he. 

PINDAR  {Greek). 

Translation  of  HENRY  FRANCIS  CART. 

ALL   THE  WOftT^VS  A  STAGE. 

THIS  life  a  theatre  we  well  may  call, 

Where  every  actor  must  perform  with  art, 

Or  laugh  it  through,  and  make  a  farce  of  all, 
Or  learn  to  bear  with  grace  his  tragic  part. 

PALLADAS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  307 


A.    2>ftAYE2t   FO91   A.    GUILELESS 


FROM    THE    EIGHTH    NEMEAN. 

Hateful  of  old  the  glozing  plea, 
With  bland  imposture  at  his  side, 
Still  meditating  guile  ; 
FilPd  with  reproaches  vile  ; 
Who  pulls  the  splendid  down, 
And  bids  th'  obscure  in  fest'ring  glory  shine. 

Such  temper  far  remove,  0  Father  Jove,  from  me. 
The  simple  paths  of  life  be  mine 
That,  when  this  being  I  resign, 
I  to  my  children  may  bequeath 
A  name  they  shall  not  blush  to  hear. 
Others  for  gold  the  vow  may  breathe, 
Or  lands  that  see  no  limit  near  ; 
But  fain  would  I  live  out  my  days, 
Beloved  by  those  with  whom  they're  past, 
In  mine  own  city,  till  at  last 
In  earth  my  limbs  are  clad  ; 
Still  praising  what  is  worthy  praise, 
But  scatt'ring  censure  on  the  bad. 
For  virtue,  by  the  wise  and  just 
Exalted,  grows  up  like  a  tree, 
That  springeth  from  the  dust, 
And,  by  the  green  dews  fed, 
Doth  raise  aloft  her  head, 
And  in  the  blithe  air  waves  her  branches  free. 

PINDAR  (Greek). 
Translation  of  HENRY  FRANCIS  GARY. 


308  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 


IN  contradiction,  wrong  or  right, 

Do  many  place  their  sole  delight. 

If  right,  'tis  well — if  wrong,  why  so  ? — 

But  contradict,  whate'er  you  do. 

Such  reasoners  deserve,  I  hold, 

No  argument  save  that  of  old, — 

"  You  say  'tis  black — /  say  'tis  Avhite — 

And  so,  good  sir,  you're  answered  quite." 

Far  different  is  the  aspect  seen 

Of  modest  Wisdom's  quiet  mien — 

Patient  and  soon  to  be  persuaded, 

When  argument  by  truth  is  aided. 

EUENUS  (Greek), 

Translation  of  3.  H.  MERIVALE. 


OJV 

CEASE,  mourner,  cease  complaint,  and  weep  no  more  ! 
Your  lost  friends  are  not  dead,  but  gone  before ; 
Advanced  a  stage  or  two  upon  that  road 
Which  you  must  travel  in  the  steps  they  trod. 
In  the  same  inn  we  all  shall  meet  at  last, 
There  take  new  life  and  laugh  at  sorrows  past. 

ANTIPHANES  (Greek). 

Translation  of  RICHARD  CUMBERLAND. 


T&ST  OF1  WISDOM. 

EXTREMES  of  fortune  are  true  wisdom's  test, 
And  he's  of  men  most  wise,  who  bears  them  best. 

PHILEMON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  RICHARD  CUMBERLAND. 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  309 


OJV 

YES — 'tis  the  greatest  evil  man  can  know, 
The  keenest  sorrow  in  this  world  of  woe, 
The  heaviest  impost  laid  on  human  breath, 
Which  all  must  pay,  or  yield  the  forfeit — death. 
For  Death  all  wretches  pray ;  but  when  the  prayer 
Is  heard,  and  he  steps  forth  to  ease  their  care, 
Gods  !  how  they  tremble  at  his  aspect  rude, 
And,  loathing  turn  !    Such  man's  ingratitude  ! 
And  none  so  fondly  cling  to  life  as  he 
Who  hath  outlived  all  life's  felicity. 

ANTIPHANES  (Greek). 

Translation  of  RICHARD  CUMBERLAND. 


THE  VJVIYE'RSAL  LOT. 

STRAIGHT  is  our  passage  to  the  grave, 
Whether  from  Meroe's  burning  wave, 

Or  Attic  groves  we  roam. 
Grieve  not  in  distant  lands  to  die ! 
Our  vessels  seek,  from  every  sky, 

Death's  universal  home. 

AUTHOR  UNKNOWN  (Greek}. 

Translation  of  FRANCIS  HODGSON. 


THE  USE  Of1  RICHES. 

ABUNDANCE  is  a  blessing  to  the  wise ; 

The  use  of  riches  in  discretion  lies. 

Learn  this,  ye  men  of  wealth — A  heavy  purse 

In  a  fool's  pocket  is  a  heavy  curse. 

MENANDER  (Greek). 

Translation  of  RICHARD  CUMBERLAND. 


310  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 


TATZBWC&  WV&JRR  SUFFERING. 

O  PERICLES  !  in  vain  the  feast  is  spread  : 
To  mirth  and  joy  the  afflicted  soul  is  dead. 
The  billows  of  the  deep  resounding  sea 
Burst  o'er  our  heads,  and  drown  our  revelry  ; 
Grief  swells  our  veins  with  pangs  unfelt  before ; 
But  Jove's  high  clemency  reserves  in  store 
All-suffering  patience  for  his  people's  cure  : 
The  best  of  healing  balms  is — To  endure. 

ARCHILOCHUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALE. 


TO  TOSTVMUS. 

TO-MORROW  you  will  live,  you  always  cry : — 
In  what  far  country  does  this  morrow  lie, 
That  'tis  so  mighty  long  ere  it  arrive  1 
Beyond  the  Indies  does  this  morrow  live  ? 
'Tis  so  far  fetch'd,  this  morrow,  that  I  fear 
'Twill  be  both  very  old,  and  very  dear. 
To-morrow  I  will  live,  the  fool  does  say : 
To-day  itself's  too  late  : — the  wise  liv'd  yesterday. 

MARTIAL  (Latin). 

Translation  of  ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 


OJV  A  HAT'PT  OZ,2)   MAN. 

THINK  not,  whoe'er  thou  art,  my  fate  severe  ; 
Nor  o'er  my  marble  stop  to  shed  a  tear  ! 
One  tender  partner  shared  my  happy  state, 
And  all  that  life  imposes,  but  its  weight. 
Three  lovely  girls  in  nuptial  ties  I  bound, 
And  children's  children  smiled  my  board  around. 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  311 

And  often,  pillow'd  on  their  grandsire's  breast, 
Their  darling  offspring  sank  to  sweetest  rest. 
Disease  and  death  were  strangers  to  my  door, 
Nor  from  my  arms  one  blooming  infant  tore. 
All,  all  survived,  my  dying  eyes  to  close, 
And  hymn  my  spirit  to  a  blest  repose. 

CAKPHYLLIDES  (Greek). 

Translation  of  ROBERT  BLAND. 


TO  ATITUS. 

ME,  who  have  liv'd  so  long  among  the  great, 
You  wonder  to  hear  talk  of  a  retreat ; 
And  a  retreat  so  distant  as  may  show 
No  thoughts  of  a  return,  when  once  I  go. 
Give  me  a  country,  how  remote  soe'er, 
Where  happiness  a  moderate  rate  does  bear, 
Where  poverty  itself  in  plenty  flows, 
And  all  the  solid  use  of  riches  knows. 

MARTIAL  (Latin). 

Translation  of  ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 


THE  OAK  siJV2)   THE 

FROM  mountain  summits  by  the  roots  uptorn 
Down  rushed  an  oak,  on  madding  whirlwind  borne ; 
A  stream  that  wound  beneath  its  swelling  course 
Received,  and  hurrying  snatched  with  eddying  force. 
Impelled  from  bank  to  bank,  the  ponderous  freight 
Now  on  a  bed  of  reeds  reposed  its  weight, 
And,  clinging  to  a  turf  that  edged  the  flood, 
Admired  how  firm  the  watery  bulrush  stood : 
That  his  vast  trunk  should  topple  from  its  height, 
And  the  slim  stem  resist  the  tempest's  might. 


312  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 

The  reed  with  slender  whisperings  bland  replies, 
"  In  this  my  weakness,  know  my  safety  lies. 
Thou  scorn 'st  the  storm,  and  buffetest  the  blast, 
And  thy  whole  strength  to  earth  is  prostrate  cast ; 
I,  soft  and  slow,  the  rising  gusts  delay, 
And,  provident,  give  every  gale  its  way. 
The  blast  that  smites  thy  gnarled  strength  but  plies 
With  my  light  motions,  dallies,  sports  and  dies." 
Brunt  not  events,  these  whisper'd  warnings  say, 
Stern  Fortune's  threats  shall  soften  from  delay. 

AVIENUS  (Latin). 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


TO  JTTLIVS 

WHAT  constitutes  true  bliss  below, 

A  few  plain  rules,  my  friend,  shall  show : — 

A  competence,  not  earn'd  with  toil, 

But  left ;  a  not  ungrateful  soil ; 

No  strife ;  no  law  ;  a  mind  sedate ; 

A  constant  fire  within  one's  grate ; 

Strength  unimpair'd ;  a  healthful  frame ; 

Friends  equal  both  in  years  and  fame ; 

A  plentiful,  though  simple  board, 

With  wholesomes,  but  not  dainties,  stor'd 

Eves  of  sobriety,  yet  gladness ; 

And  nights,  though  chaste,  unmix'd  with  sadness, 

With  sleep  to  shorten  night's  dark  sway ; 

Then,  grateful  for  each  coming  day, 

Enjoy  the  present  as  the  past, 

Nor  wish,  nor  tremble  at,  the  last. 

MARTIAL  (Latin). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  313 


TJ3&  OL3)  MAJV  OF 

HAPPY  the  man  who  his  whole  time  doth  bound 

Within  th'  enclosure  of  his  little  ground  : 

Happy  the  man  whom  the  same  humble  place 

(Th'  hereditary  cottage  of  his  race) 

From  his  first  rising  infancy  has  known, 

And  by  degrees  sees  gently  bending  down, 

With  natural  propension,  to  that  earth 

Which  both  preserv'd  his  life  and  gave  him  birth. 

Him  no  false  distant  lights,  by  Fortune  set, 

Could  ever  into  foolish  wand'rings  get ; 

He  never  dangers  either  saw  or  fear'd ; 

The  dreadful  storms  at  sea  he  never  heard : 

He  never  heard  the  shrill  alarms  of  war, 

Or  the  worse  noises  of  the  lawyer's  bar : 

No  change  of  Consuls  marks  to  him  the  year ; 

The  change  of  seasons  is  his  calendar : 

The  cold  and  heat  winter  and  summer  shows, 

Autumn  by  fruits,  and  Spring  by  flow'rs,  he  knows : 

He  measures  time  by  landmarks,  and  has  found 

For  the  whole  day  the  dial  of  his  ground : 

A  neighb'ring  wood,  born  with  himself,  he  sees, 

And  loves  his  old  contemporary  trees ; 

He's  only  heard  of  near  Verona's  name, 

And  knows  it,  like  the  Indies,  but  by  fame ; 

Does  with  a  like  concernment  notice  take 

Of  the  Ked  Sea,  and  of  Benacus'  lake. 

Thus  health  and  strength  he  to  a  third  age  enjoys, 

And  sees  a  long  posterity  of  boys. 

About  the  spacious  world  let  others  roam, 

The  voyage,  life,  is  longest  made  at  home. 

CLAUDIAN  (Latin). 

Translation  of  ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 
27 


314  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 


TO 

WELL  the  tower  of  brass,  the  massive  doors,  the  watch- 
dogs' dismal  bay 

Had  from  midnight  wooers  guarded  Danae  where  im- 
mured she  lay : 

There  she  might  have  pined  a  virgin,  prisoned  by  the 
timorous  craft 

Of  her  fated  sire  Acrisius,  had  not  Jove  and  Venus  laugh 'd 

At  his  terrors;  for  no  sooner  changed  the  god  to  gold, 
than  he 

Instantly  unto  the  maiden  access  found  secure  and  free. 

Through  close  lines  on  lines  of  sentries  gold  to  cleave  its 

way  delights, 
Stronger  than   the   crashing   lightning   through   opposing 

rocks  it  smites  ; 

'Twas  through  vile  desire  of  lucre,  as  the  storied  legends  tell, 
That  the  house  of  Argos'  augur  whelm'd  in  death  and 

ruin  fell ; 
'Twas  by  bribes  the  Macedonian  cities'  gates  could  open 

fling, 
'Twas  by  bribes  that  he  subverted  many  a  dreaded  rival 

king ; 
Nay,  there  lies  such  fascination  in  the  gleam  of  gold  to 

some, 
That  our  bluffest  navy  captains  to  its  witchery  succumb. 

But  as  wealth  into  our  coffers  flows  in  still  increasing  store, 
So,  too,  still  our  care  increases,  and  the  hunger  still  for 

more, 
Therefore,  0  Maecenas,  glory  of  the  knights,  with  righteous 

dread 
Have  I  ever  shrunk  from  lifting  too  conspicuously  my  head. 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  315 


Yes,  the  more  a  man,  believe  me,  shall  unto  himself  deny, 
So   to  him   shall   the   Immortals   bounteously   the   more 

supply. 

From  the  ranks  of  wealth  deserting,  I,  of  all  their  trap- 
pings bare, 
To  the  camp  of  those  who  covet  naught  that  pelf  can  bring 

repair, 

More  illustrious  as  the  master  of  my  poor  despised  hoard 
Than  if  I  should  be  reputed  in  my  garners  to  have  stored 
All  the  fruits  of  all  the  labors  of  the  stout  Apulian  boor, 
Lord  belike  of  wealth  unbounded,  yet  as  veriest  beggar 
poor. 

In  my  crystal  stream,  my  woodland,  though  its  acres  are 

but  few, 
And  the  trust  that  I  shall  gather  home  my  crops  in  season 

due, 

Lies  a  joy  which  he  may  never  grasp,  who  rules  in  gor- 
geous state 

Fertile  Africa's  dominions.     Happier,  happier  far,  my  fate  ! 
Though  for  me  no  bees  Calabrian  store  their  honey,  nor 

doth  wine 

Sickening  in  the  Lsestrygonian  amphora  for  me  refine ; 
Though  for  me  no  flocks  unnumbered,  browsing  Gallia's 

pastures  fair, 
Pant  beneath  their  swelling  fleeces,  I  at  least  am  free  from 

care ; 
Haggard  want  with   direful   clamor  ravins   never   at  my 

door, 
Nor  wouldst  thou,  if  more  I  wanted,  0  my  friend,  deny 

me  more. 
Appetites  subdued  will  make  me  richer  with  my  scanty 

gains, 
Than  the  realms  of  Alyattes  wedded  to  Mygdonia's  plains. 


316  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 

Much  will  evermore  be  wanting  unto  those  who  much 

demand ; 
Blest,  whom  Jove  with  what  sufficeth  dowers,  but  dowers 

with  sparing  hand. 

HORACE  (Latin),  ODE  XVI.,  BOOK  III. 

Translation  of  THEO.  MAKTIN. 


TO  LICIJYI&S. 

RECEIVE,  dear  friend,  the  truths  I  teach, 
So  shalt  thou  live  beyond  the  reach 

Of  adverse  Fortune's  power ; 
Not  always  tempt  the  distant  deep, 
Nor  always  timorously  creep 

Along  the  treacherous  shore. 

He  that  holds  fast  the  golden  mean, 
And  lives  contentedly  between 

The  little  and  the  great, 
Feels  not  the  wants  that  pinch  the  poor, 
Nor  plagues  that  haunt  the  rich  man's  door, 

Imbittering  all  his  state. 

The  tallest  pines  feel  most  the  power 
Of  wintry  blasts ;  the  loftiest  tower 

Comes  heaviest  to  the  ground : 
The  bolts  that  spare  the  mountain's  side, 
His  cloud-capt  eminence  divide, 

And  spread  the  ruin  round. 

The  well-informed  philosopher 
Rejoices,  with  a  wholesome  fear, 
And  hopes  in  spite  of  pain ; 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  317 

If  Winter  bellow  from  the  North, 
Soon  the  sweet  Spring  comes  dancing  forth, 
And  Nature  laughs  again. 

What  if  thine  Heaven  be  overcast  ? 
The  dark  appearance  will  not  last ; 

Expect  a  brighter  sky  ! 
The  god  that  strings  the  silver  bow 
Awakes  sometimes  the  Muses  too, 

And  lays  his  arrows  by. 

If  hindrances  obstruct  thy  way, 
Thy  magnanimity  display, 

And  let  thy  strength  be  seen; 
But,  oh !  if  Fortune  fill  thy  sail 
With  more  than  a  propitious  gale, 

Take  half  thy  canvas  in. 

HORACE  (Latin),  ODE  X.,  BOOK  II. 

Translation  of  WILLIAM  COWPER. 


OJV 

LIKE  sheep,  we're  doom'd  to  travel  o'er 

The  fated  track  to  all  assign'd, 
These  follow  those  that  went  before, 

And  leave  the  world  to  those  behind. 

As  the  flock  seeks  the  pasturing  shade, 

Man  presses  to  the  future  day, 
While  Death,  amidst  the  tufted  glade, 

Like  the  dun  robber,*  waits  his  prey. 

SHEMS  ALMAALI  CABUS  (Arabian),  the  dethroned  Sultan  of  Georgia. 

Translation  of  J.  D.  CARLYLE. 

*Wolf. 


318  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 


ON  FATALISM. 

NOT  always  wealth,  not  always  force 

A  splendid  destiny  commands  ; 
The  lordly  vulture  gnaws  the  corse 

That  rots  upon  yon  barren  sands. 

Nor  want,  nor  weakness  still  conspire 

To  bind  us  to  a  sordid  state ; 
The  fly  that  with  a  touch  expires, 

Sips  honey  from  the  royal  plate. 

SHAFAY  MOHAMMED  BEN  IDRIS  (Arabian). 

Translation  of  J.  D.  CABLYLE. 


OJV  AVA'RICE. 

How  frail  are  riches  and  their  joys  ! 
Morn  builds  the  heap  which  eve  destroys ; 
Yet  can  they  leave  one  sure  delight — 
The  thought  that  we've  employed  them  right. 

What  bliss  can  wealth  afford  to  me 
"When  life's  last  solemn  hour  I  see, 
When  Mavia's  sympathizing  sighs 
Will  but  augment  my  agonies  ? 

Can  hoarded  gold  dispel  the  gloom 
That  death  must  shed  around  the  tomb? 
Or  cheer  the  ghost  which  hovers  there, 
And  fills  with  shrieks  the  desert  air? 

What  boots  it,  Mavia,  in  the  grave 
Whether  I  lov'd  to  waste  or  save  1 
The  hand  that  millions  now  can  grasp, 
In  death  no  more  than  mine  shall  clasp. 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  319 

Were  I  ambitious  to  behold 
Increasing  stores  of  treasured  gold, 
Each,  tribe  that  roves  the  desert  knows 
I  might  be  wealthy  if  I  chose ; 

But  other  joys  can  gold  impart, 
Far  other  wishes  warm  my  heart — 
Ne'er  shall  I  strive  to  swell  the  heap, 
Till  want  and  woe  have  ceased  to  weep. 

With  brow  unaltered  I  can  see 
The  hour  of  wealth  or  poverty : 
I've  drunk  from  both  the  cups  of  fate, 
Nor  this  could  sink,  nor  that  elate. 

With  fortune  blest,  I  ne'er  was  found 
To  look  with  scorn  on  those  around ; 
Nor,  for  the  loss  of  paltry  ore, 
Shall  Hatem  seem  to  Hatem  poor. 

HATEM  TAI  (Arabian). 

Translation  of  J.  D.  CAKLYLE. 


BY  fire  the  artist  moulds  the  ductile  steel 
Into  the  beauteous  forms  his  thought  defines ; 
And  fire  expels  th'  alloys,  which  else  conceal 
The  gold's  pure  lustre,  and  its  mass  refines ; 
Nor  can  the  Phoenix,  matchless  bird,  resume 
Its  plumes  except  it  burn.     Be  it  my  doom 
Thus  into  death  to  burn ;  since  Heaven  assigns 
Triumph  o'er  death  to  such  in  realms  of  light. 


320  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 

O  Death,  how  sweet !    0  Conflagration  bright ! 
If  thus  resolved  to  ashes  upwards  springs 
The  soul,  no  more  a  mortal  home  to  claim ; 
Or  rather,  if  transmuted  into  flame, 
Which  has  by  Nature's  law  a  heavenward  aim, 
I'm  wafted  thither  on  immortal  wings. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  (Italian). 

Translation  of  JOHN  S.  HARFOKD. 


TO 

TIME  my  frail  bark  o'er  a  rough  ocean  guides 

Swift  to  that  Port  where  all  must  touch  that  live, 

And  of  their  actions,  good  or  evil,  give 

A  strict  account,  where  Truth  supreme  presides. 

As  to  fond  Fancy,  in  which  Art  confides, 

And  even  her  Idol   and  her  Monarch  makes, 

Full  well  I  know  how  largely  it  partakes 

Of  error ;  but  frail  man  in  error  prides ; 

My  thoughts,  once  prompt  round  hurtful  things  to  twine, 

What  are  they  now,  when  two  dread  Deaths  are  near ! 

The  one  impends,  the  other  shakes  his  spear. 

Painting's  and  Sculpture's  aid  in  vain  I  crave ; 

My  one  sole  refuge  is  that  Love  divine 

Which  from  the  cross  stretch'd  forth  its  arms  to  save. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  (Italian). 

Translation  of  JOHN  S.  HABFOER 


XZ  TZ. 

FALSE  Love  !  with  thee,  for  many  a  livelong  year, 

I've  fed  my  soul ;  in  part  my  body  too ; 

For  thy  seductive  arts  th'  unwary  woo 

To  flowery  paths,  with  pitfalls  lurking  near ; 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  321 

Now  wearied,  on  winged  thoughts  I  upwards  steer, 
Where  purer,  nobler  objects  charru  the  view : 
Pardon  I  ask  of  God,  with  sorrow  true, 
For  faults  which  traced  on  endless  sheets  appear. 
Far  other  Love  points  to  Eternal  Day ; 
Imperishable  Beauty  leads  me  there ; 
To  its  bright  shafts  my  bosom  I  unbare ; 
One  urges  on,  the  other  smooths  my  way; 
Hope  smiles  celestial ;  in  those  smiles  I'll  trust, 
Till  'neath  some  marble  sleeps,  at  length,  my  dust. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  (Italian). 

Translation  of  JOHN  S.  HARFORD. 


JUST  as  a  mother,  with  sweet,  pious  face, 

Yearns  towards  her  little  children  from  her  seat, 

Gives  one  a  kiss,  another  an  embrace, 

Takes  this  upon  her  knees,  that  on  her  feet ; 

And  while  from  actions,  looks,  complaints,  pretenses, 

She  learns  their  feelings  and  their  various  will, 

To  this  a  look,  to  that  a  word,  dispenses, 

And,  whether  stern  or  smiling,  loves  them  still ; — 

So  Providence,  for  us,  high,  infinite, 

Makes  our  necessities  its  watchful  task, 

Hearkens  to  all  our  prayers,  helps  all  our  wants, 

And  even  if  it  denies  what  seems  our  right, 

Either  denies  because  't  would  have  us  ask, 

Or  seems  but  to  deny,  or  in  denying  grants. 

VINCENZO  DA  FILICAJA  (Italian). 

Translation  of  LEIGH  HUNT. 


322  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 


THE  CALCULATION  Of  LIFE. 

THOU  art  aged ;  but  recount, 

Since  thy  early  life  began, 
What  may  be  the,  just  amount 

Thou  shouldst  number  of  thy  span : 
How  much  to  thy  debts  belong, 

How  much  when  vain  fancy  caught  thee, 
How  much  to  the  giddy  throng, 

How  much  to  the  poor  who  sought  thee, 
How  much  to  thy  lawyer's  wiles, 

How  much  to  thy  menial  crew, 
How  much  to  thy  lady's  smiles, 

How  much  to  thy  sick-bed  due, 
How  much  for  thy  hours  of  iBisure, 

For  thy  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
How  much  for  each  idle  pleasure, — 

If  the  list  thy  memory  know. 
Every  wasted,  misspent  day, 

\Vhich  regret  can  ne'er  recall, — 
If  all  these  thou  tak'st  away, 

Thou  wilt  find  thy  age  but  small : 
That  thy  years  were  falsely  told, 
And,  even  now,  thou  art  not  old. 

JEAN  AKTOINE  DE  BAIF  (French). 

Translation  of  LOUISA  STUART  COSTELLO. 


LVCIS. 

THROUGH  night  to  light ! — And  though  to  mortal  eyes 

Creation's  face  a  pall  of  horror  wear, 
Good  cheer  !  good  cheer  !     The  gloom  of  midnight  flies ; 

Then  shall  a  sunrise  follow,  mild  and  fair. 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  323 

Through  storm  to  calm  ! — And  though  his  thunder-car 
The  rumbling  Tempest  drive  through  earth  and  sky, 

Good  cheer  !  good  cheer !     The  elemental  war 
Tells  that  a  blessed  healing  hour  is  nigh. 

Through  frost  to  spring ! — And  though  the  biting  blast 

Of  Eurus  stiffen  nature's  juicy  veins, 
Good  cheer  !  good  cheer  !     When  winter's  wrath  is  past, 

Soft-murmuring  spring  breathes  sweetly  o'er  the  plains. 

Through  strife  to  peace  ! — And  though,  with  bristling  front, 
A  thousand  frightful  deaths  encompass  thee, 

Good  cheer  !  good  cheer  !     Brave  thou  the  battle's  brunt, 
For  the  peace-march  and  song  of  victory. 

Through  sweat  to  sleep  ! — And  though  the  sultry  noon, 
With  heavy,  drooping  wing,  oppress  thee  now, 

Good  cheer  !  good  cheer  !     The  cool  of  evening  soon 
Shall  lull  to  sweet  repose  thy  weary  brow. 

Through  cross  to  crown  ! — And  though  thy  spirit's  life 

Trials  untold  assail  with  giant  strength, 
Good  cheer  !  geod  cheer !     Soon  ends  the  bitter  strife, 

And  thou  shalt  reign  in  peace  with  Christ  at  length. 

Through  woe  to  joy  ! — And  though  at  mom  thou  weep, 
And  though  the  midnight  find  thee  weeping  still, 

Good  cheer  1  good  cheer  !     The  Shepherd  loves  his  sheep ; 
Resign  thee  to  the  watchful  Father's  will. 

Through  death  to  life  ! — And  through  this  vale  of  tears, 
And  through  this  thistle-field  of  life,  ascend 

To  the  great  supper  in  that  world  whose  years 
Of  bliss  unfading,  cloudless,  know  no  end. 

LUDWIQ  THEOBUL  KOSEGARTEN  (German). 

Translation  of  C.  T.  BROOKS. 


324  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 


THE  AMEJY  Of  THE  STOJVES. 

BLIND  with  old  age,  the  Venerable  Bede 
Ceased  not,  for  that,  to  preach  and  publish  forth 
The  news  from  heaven, — the  tidings  of  great  joy. 
From  town  to  town, — through  all  the  villages, — 
With  trusty  guidance,  roamed  the  aged  saint, 
And  preached  the  word  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 

One  day  his  boy  had  led  him  to  a  vale 
That  lay  all  thickly  sowed  with  mighty  rocks. 
In  mischief,  more  than  malice,  spake  the  boy : 
"  Most  reverend  father !  there  are  many  men 
Assembled  here,  who  wait  to  hear  thy  voice." 

The  blind  old  man,  so  bowed,  straightway  rose  up, 
Chose  him  his  text,  expounded,  then  applied ; 
Exhorted,  warned,  rebuked,  and  comforted, 
So  fervently,  that  soon  the  gushing  tears 
Streamed  thick  and  fast  down  to  his  hoary  beard. 
When,  at  the  close,  as  seemeth  always  meet, 
He  prayed  "  Our  Father,"  and  pronounced  aloud, 
"  Thine  is  the  kingdom  and  the  power,  thine 
The  glory  now  and  through  eternity," — 
At  once  there  rang  through  all  that  echoing  vale 
A  sound  of  many  thousand  voices  crying, 
"  Amen  !  most  reverend  Sire,  amen  !  amen  !  " 

Trembling  with  terror  and  remorse,  the  boy 
Knelt  down  before  the  saint,  and  owned  his  sin. 
"  Son,"  said  the  old  man,  "  hast  thou,  then,  ne'er  read, 
'  When  men  are  dumb,  the  stones  shall  cry  aloud '? — 
Henceforward  mock  not,  son,  the  word  of  God  ! 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  325 

Living  it  is,  and  mighty,  cutting  sharp, 
Like  a  two-edged  sword.     And  when  the  heart 
Of  flesh  grows  hard  and  stubborn  as  the  stone, 
A  heart  of  flesh  shall  stir  in  stones  themselves ! " 

LDDWIG  THEOBUL  KOSEGARTEN  (German). 

Translation  of  C.  T.  BROOKS. 

CHEERFULNESS. 

SEE  how  the  day  beameth  brightly  before  us ! 

Blue  is  the  firmament,  green  is  the  earth ; 
Grief  hath  no  voice  in  the  Universe  chorus, 

Nature  is  ringing  with  music  and  mirth. 
Lift  up  the  looks  that  are  sinking  in  sadness ; 

Gaze  !  and  if  beauty  can  rapture  thy  soul, 
Virtue  herself  shall  allure  thee  to  gladness, — 

Gladness  !  philosophy's  guerdon  and  goal. 

Enter  the  treasuries  Pleasure  uncloses ; 

List !  how  she  trills  in  the  nightingale's  lay ! 
Breathe  !  she  is  wafting  the  sweets  from  the  roses ; 

Feel !  she  is  cool  in  the  rivulet's  play ; 
Taste  !  from  the  grape  and  the  nectarine  gushing, 

Flows  the  red  rill  in  the  beams  of  the  sun ; 
Green  in  the  hills,  the  flower-groves  blushing, 

Look  !  she  is  always  and  everywhere  one. 

Banish,  then,  mourner,  the  tears  that  are  trickling 

Over  the  cheeks  that  should  rosily  bloom ; 
Why  should  a  man,  like  a  girl  or  a  sickling, 

Suffer  his  lamp  to  be  quenched  in  the  tomb  ? 
Still  may  we  battle  for  good  and  for  beauty ; 

Still  have  philanthropy  much  to  essay  : 
Glory  rewards  the  fulfilment  of  duty ; 

Rest  will  pavilion  the  end  of  our  way. 


326  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 

What  though  corroding  and  multiplied  sorrows, 

Legion-like,  darken  this  planet  of  ours? 
Hope  is  a  balsam  the  wounded  heart  borrows, 

Even  when  anguish  hath  palsied  its  powers ; 
Wherefore,  though  fate  play  the  part  of  a  traitor, 

Soar  o'er  the  stars  on  the  pinions  of  hope, — 
Fearlessly  certain,  that,  sooner  or  later, 

Over  the  stars  thy  desires  shall  have  scope. 

Look  round  about  on  the  face  of  creation ! 

Still  is  God's  earth  undistorted  and  bright ; 
Comfort  the  captive's  too  long  tribulation, 

Thus  shalt  thou  reap  thy  perfect  delight. 
Love  ! — but  if  love  be  a  hollow  emotion, 

Purity  only  its  rapture  should  share ; 
Love,  then,  with  willing  and  deathless  devotion, 

All  that  is  just,  and  exalted,  and  fair. 

Act ! — for  in  action  are  wisdom  and  glory ; 

Fame,  immortality,  these  are  its  crown ; 
Wouldst  thou  illumine  the  tablets  of  story, 

Build  on  achievements  thy  doom  of  renown. 
Honor  and  feeling  were  given  to  cherish ; 

Cherish  them,  then,  though  all  else  should  decay ; 
Landmarks  be  these  that  are  never  to  perish, 

Stars  that  will  shine  on  the  duskiest  day. 

Courage  !  disaster  and  peril  once  over, 

Freshen  the  spirits  as  flowers  the  grove ; 
O'er  the  dim  graves  that  the  cypresses  cover, 

Soon  the  forget-me-not  rises  in  love. 
Courage,  then,  friends  !  though  the  universe  crumble, 

Innocence,  dreadless  of  danger  beneath, 
Patient  and  trustful,  and  joyous  and  humble, 

Smiles  through  ruin  on  darkness  and  death  ! 

JOHANN  GAUDENZ  VON  SALIS  (German).     Translator  UNKNOWN. 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  327 


SONG  Of  THE  SILENT 

INTO  the  Silent  Land  ! 
Ah  !  who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 
Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather, 
And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 
Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Thither,  oh,  thither, 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ? 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 
To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 
Of  all  perfection  !     Tender  morning-visions 

Of  beauteous  souls  !     The  Future's  pledge  and  band  ! 
Who  in  Life's  battle  firm  doth  stand 
Shall  bear  Hope's  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land ! 

O  Land !     O  Land  ! 
For  all  the  broken-hearted 
The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted 

Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 

To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Into  the  land  of  the  great  departed, 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

JOHANN  GACDENZ  VON  SALIS  (German). 

Translation  of  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


TO 

"  Great  sacrifice  and  much  endeavor 
Have  I  made  for  human  good, 
Scorn  and  hate  have  been  my  portion, 
Pain  and  tears  my  daily  food." 


328  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 

Shall  I  tell  thee,  friend  Keformer, 

How  I  hold  it  with  mankind? 

Trust  my  words,  they've  ne'er  deceived  me, 

Strength  they'll  give  unto  thy  mind. 

Never  canst  thou  think  too  highly 
Of  man's  great  calling  and  his  worth, 
For  from  the  thoughts  within  thy  bosom 
All  thy  outward  deeds  have  birth. 

Then  when  thou  meet'st  a  fellow-brother 
Struggling  for  the  means  to  live, 
Reach  a  helping  hand  unto  him, 
Thou  hast  received,  so  freely  give. 

But  for  humanity's  well  being, 
For  rain  and  dew  and  blessings  more, 
The  God  who  careth  for  the  sparrows, 
care  for  them,  as  heretofore. 

FBIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER  (German). 

Translation  of  WILLIAM  HUNTX 


THE  OL3) 

AMONG  yon  lines  her  hands  have  laden, 

A  laundress  with  white  hair  appears, 
Alert  as  many  a  youthful  maiden, 

Spite  of  her  five  and  seventy  years. 
Bravely  she  won  those  white  hairs,  still 

Eating  the  bread  hard  toil  obtained  her, 
And  laboring  truly  to  fulfil 

The  duties  to  which  God  ordained  her. 

Once  she  was  young  and  full  of  gladness, 
She  loved  and  hoped,  was  wooed  and  won ; 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  329 

Then  came  the  matron's  cares,  the  sadness 

No  loving  heart  on  earth  may  shun. 
Three  babes  she  bore  her  mate ;  she  prayed 

Beside  his  sick-bed ;  he  was  taken ; 
She  saw  him  in  the  church-yard  laid, 

Yet  kept  her  faith  and  hope  unshaken. 

The  task  her  little  ones  of  feeding 

She  met  unfaltering  from  that  hour ; 
She  taught  them  thrift  and  honest  breeding, 

Her  virtues  were  their  worldly  dower. 
To  seek  employment,  one  by  one, 

Forth  with  her  blessing  they  departed, 
And  she  was  in  the  world  alone ; 

Alone  and  old,  but  still  high-hearted. 

With  frugal  forethought,  self-denying, 

She  gathered  coin,  and  flax  she  bought, 
And  many  a  night  her  spindle  plying, 

Good  store  of  fine-spun  thread  she  wrought. 
The  thread  was  fashioned  in  the  loom, 

She  brought  it  home  and  calmly  seated 
To  work,  with  not  a  thought  of  gloom, 

Her  decent  grave-clothes  she  completed. 

She  looks  on  them  with  fond  elation, 

They  are  her  wealth,  her  treasure  rare, 
Her  age's  pride  and  consolation, 

Hoarded  with  all  a  miser's  care. 
She  dons  the  sack  each  Sabbath-day, 

To  hear  the  Word  that  faileth  never; 
Well-pleased  she  lays  it  then  away, 

Till  she  shall  sleep  in  it  forever. 

28 


330  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 

Would  that  my  spirit  witness  bore  me 

That,  like  this  woman,  1  had  done 
The  work  my  Maker  put  before  me, 

Duly  from  morn  till  set  of  sun. 
Would  that  life's  cup  had  been  by  me 

Quaffed  in  such  wise  and  happy  measure, 
And  that  I  too  might  finally 

Look  on  my  shroud  with  such  meek  pleasure. 

ADELBERT  VON  CHAMISSO  (German). 

Translation  in  FOREIGN  QUARTERLY. 


AT  morning  I  stood  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
In  its  May-wreath  crowned,  and  there 

Saw  day  rise  in  gold  and  in  purple  glow,' 
And  I  cried,—"  0  Life,  how  fair !" 

As  the  birds  in  the  bowers  their  lay  began, 
When  the  dawning  time  was  nigh, 

So  wakened  for  song  in  the  breast  of  man 
A  passion  heroic  and  high. 

My  spirit  then  felt  the  longing  to  soar 

From  home  afar  in  its  flight, 
To  roam,  like  the  sun,  still  from  shore  to  shore, 

A  creator  of  flowers  and  light. 

At  even  I  stood  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
And,  rapt  in  devotion  and  prayer, 

Saw  night  rise  in  silver  and  purple  glow, 
And  I  cried,—"  0  Death,  how  fair !" 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  331 

And  when  that  the  soft  evening  wind,  so  meek, 

With  its  balmy  breathing  came, 
It  seemed  as  though  Nature  then  kissed  my  cheek 

And  tenderly  sighed  my  name  ! 

I  saw  the  vast  Heaven  encompassing  all, 

Like  children  the  stars  to  her  came ; 
The  exploits  of  man  then  seemed  to  me  small, — 

Naught  great  save  the  Infinite's  name. 

Ah !  how  unheeded,  all  charms  which  invest 
The  joys  and  the  hopes  that  men  prize, 

While  the  eternal  thoughts  in  the  poet's  breast, 
Like  stars  in  the  heavens  arise  ! 

ERIC  SJOBERG  (Swedish). 
Translation  in  FOREIGN  REVIEW. 


OH,  happy,  happy  he,  who  flies 
Far  from  the  noisy  world  away, — 

Who,  with  the  worthy  and  the  wise, 
Hath  chosen  the  narrow  way, — 

The  silence  of  the  secret  road 

That  leads  the  soul  to  virtue  and  to  God ! 

No  passions  in  his  breast  arise  ; 

Calm  in  his  own  unaltered  state, 
He  smiles  superior,  as  he  eyes 

The  splendor  of  the  great ; 
And  his  undazzled  gaze  is  proof 
Against  the  glittering  hall  and  gilded  roof. 


332  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 

He  heeds  not,  though  the  trump  of  fame 
Pour  forth  the  loudest  of  its  strains 

To  spread  the  glory  of  his  name ; 
And  his  high  soul  disdains 

That  flattery's  voice  should  varnish  o'er 

The  deed  that  truth  or  virtue  would  abhor. 

Such  lot  be  mine :  what  boots  to  me 

The  cumbrous  pageantry  of  power ; 
To  court  the  gaze  of  crowds,  and  be 

The  idol  of  the  hour ; 
To  chase  an  empty  shape  of  air, 
That  leaves  me  weak  with  toil  and  worn  with  care  ? 

O  streams,  and  shades,  and  hills  on  high, 

Unto  the  stillness  of  your  breast 
My  wounded  spirit  longs  to  fly, — 

To  fly,  and  be  at  rest ! 
Thus  from  the  world's  tempestuous  sea, 
0  gentle  Nature,  do  I  turn  to  thee ! 

Be  mine  the  holy  calm  of  night, 
Soft  sleep  and  dreams  serenely  gay, 

The  freshness  of  the  morning  light, 
The  fulness  of  the  day ; 

Far  from  the  sternly  frowning  eye 

That  pride  and  riches  turn  on  poverty. 

The  warbling  birds  shall  bid  me  wake 

With  their  untutored  melodies ; 
No  fearful  dream  my  sleep  shall  break, 

No  wakeful  cares  arise, 
Like  the  sad  shapes  that  hover  still 
Hound  him  that  hangs  upon  another's  will. 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  333 

Be  mine  my  hopes  to  Heaven  to  give, 
To  taste  the  bliss  that  Heaven  bestows, 

Alone  and  for  myself  to  live, 
And  'scape  the  many  woes 

That  human  hearts  are  doomed  to  bear, — 

The  pangs  of  love,  and  hate,  and  hope,  and  fear. 

A  garden  by  the  mountain-side 

Is  mine,  whose  flowery  blossoming 
Shows,  even  in  Spring's  luxuriant  pride, 

What  autumn's  suns  shall  bring : 
And  from  the  mountain's  lofty  crown 
A  clear  and  sparkling  rill  comes  trembling  down ; 

Then  pausing  in  its  downward  force 

The  venerable  trees  among, 
It  gurgles  on  its  winding  course ; 

And,  as  it  glides  along, 
Gives  freshness  to  the  day,  and  pranks 
With  ever  changing  flowers  its  mossy  banks. 

The  whisper  of  the  balmy  breeze 

Scatters  a  thousand  sweets  around, 
And  sweeps  in  music  through  the  trees, 

With  an  enchanting  sound, 
That  laps  the  soul  in  calm  delight, 
Where  crowns  and  kingdoms  are  forgotten  quite. 

Theirs  let  the  dear-bought  treasure  be, 

Who  in  a  treacherous  bark  confide ; 
I  stand  aloof,  and  changeless  see 

The  changes  of  the  tide, 
Nor  fear  the  wail  of  those  that  weep, 
When  angry  winds  are  warring  with  the  deep : 


334  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 

Day  turns  to  night ;  the  timbers  rend  ; 

More  fierce  the  ruthless  tempest  blows 
Confused  the  varying  cries  ascend, 

As  the  sad  merchant  throws 
His  hoards,  to  join  the  stores  that  lie 
In  the  deep  sea's  uncounted  treasury 

Mine  be  the  peaceful  board  of  old, 
From  want  as  from  profusion  free : 

His  let  the  massy  cup  of  gold, 
And  glittering  bawbles  be, 

Who  builds  his  baseless  hope  of  gain 

Upon  a  brittle  bark  and  stormy  main. 

While  others,  thoughtless  of  the  pain 
Of  hope  delayed  and  long  suspense, 

Still  struggle  on  to  guard  or  gain 
A  sad  preeminence, 

May  I,  in  woody  covert  laid, 

Be  gayly  chanting  in  the  secret  shade, — 

At  ease  within  the  shade  reclined, 
With  laurel  and  with  ivy  crowned, 

And  my  attentive  ear  inclined 
To  catch  the  heavenly  sound 

Of  harp  or  lyre,  when  o'er  the  strings 

Some  master-hand  its  practised  finger  flings. 

Luis  PONCE  DE  LEON  (Spanish). 

Translation  i»  EDINBURGH  REVIEW. 


JYOCHE 

WHEN  yonder  glorious  sky 
Lighted  with  million  lamps  I  contemplate ; 

And  turn  my  dazzled  eye 

To  this  vain  mortal  state, 
All  dim  and  visionary,  mean'  and  desolate ; 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  335 

A  mingled  joy  and  grief 
Fills  all  my  soul  with  dark  solicitude ; 

I  find  a  short  relief 

In  tears,  where  torrents  rude 
Eoll  down  my  cheeks ;  or  thoughts  which  thus  intrude : — 

Thou  so  sublime  abode  : 
Temple  of  light,  and  beauty's  fairest  shrine ! 

My  soul,  a  spark  of  God, 

Aspiring  to  thy  seats  divine, 
Why,  why  is  it  condemned  in  this  dull  cell  to  pine  1 

Why  should  I  ask  in  vain 
For  truth's  pure  lamp,  and  wander  here  alone, 

Seeking,  through  toil  and  pain, 

Light  from  the  Eternal  One, — 
Following  a  shadow  still,  that  glimmers  and  is  gone  ? 

Dreams  and  delusions  play 
With  man, — he  thinks  not  of  his  mortal  fate : 

Death  treads  his  silent  way ; 

The  earth  turns  round  ;  and  then,  too  late, 
Man  finds  no  beam  is  left  of  all  his  fancied  state. 

Eise  from  your  sleep,  vain  men  ! 
Look  round, — and  ask  if  spirits  born  of  Heaven, 

And  bound  to  Heaven  again, 

Were  only  lent  or  given 
To  be  in  this  mean  round  of  shades  and  follies  driven. 

Turn  your  unclouded  eye 
Up  to  yon  bright,  to  yon  eternal  spheres ; 

^.nd  spurn  the  vanity 

Of  time's  delusive  years, 
And  all  its  flattering  hopes,  and  all  its  frowning  fears. 


336  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 

What  is  the  ground  ye  tread, 
But  a  mere  point,  compared  with  that  vast  space, 

Around,  above  you  spread, — 

Where,  in  the  Almighty's  face, 
The  present,  future,  past,  hold  an  eternal  place  ? 

List  to  the  concert  pure 
Of  yon  harmonious,  countless  worlds  of  light ! 

See,  in  his  orbit  sure, 

Each  takes  his  journey  bright, 
Led  by  an  unseen  hand  through  the  vast  maze  of  night ! 

See  how  the  pale  Moon  rolls 
Her  silver  wheel ;  and,  scattering  beams  afar 

On  Earth's  benighted  souls, 

See  Wisdom's  holy  star ; 
Or,  in  his  fiery  course,  the  sanguine  orb  of  War ; 

Or  that  benignant  ray 
Which  Love  hath  called  its  own,  and  made  so  fair ; 

Or  that  serene  display 

Of  power  supernal  there, 
Where  Jupiter  conducts  his  chariot  through  the  air ! 

And,  circling  all  the  rest, 
See  Saturn,  father  of  the  golden  hours : 

While  round  him,  bright  and  blest, 

The  whole  empyreum  showers 
Its  glorious  streams  of  light  on  this  low  world  of  ours ! 

But  who  to  these  can  turn, 
And  weigh  them  'gainst  a  weeping  world  like  this, — 

Nor  feel  his  spirit  burn 

To  grasp  so  sweet  a  bliss, 
And  mourn  that  exile  hard  which  here  his  portion  is  1 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  337 

For  there,  and  there  alone, 
Are  peace,  and  joy,  and  never-dying  love, — 

There,  on  a  splendid  throne, 

'Midst  all  those  fires  above, 
In  glories  and  delights  which  never  wane  nor  move. 

O,  wondrous  blessedness, 
Whose  shadowy  effluence  hope  o'er  time  can  fling ! 

Day  that  shall  never  cease, — 

No  night  there  threatening, — 
No  winter  there  to  chill  joy's  ever-during  spring. 

Ye  fields  of  changeless  green, 
Covered  with  living  streams  and  fadeless  flowers ! 

Thou  paradise  serene ! 

Eternal,  joyful  hours 
My  disembodied  soul  shall  welcome  in  thy  bowers ! 

Luis  PONCE  DE  LEON  (Spanish). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWKINO. 

STANZAS. 

I  SAW  the  virtuous  man  contend 

With  life's  unnumbered  woes ; 
And  he  was  poor, — without  a  friend, — 

Pressed  by  a  thousand  foes. 

I  saw  the  Passions'  pliant  slave 

In  gallant  trim,  and  gay ; 
His  course  was  Pleasure's  placid  wave, — 

His  life,  a  summer's  day. 

And  I  was  caught  in  Folly's  snare, 

And  joined  her  giddy  train, — 
But  found  her  soon  the  nurse  of  Care, 

And  Punishment,  and  Pain. 
29 


338  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 

There  surely  is  some  guiding  power 

Which  rightly  suffers  wrong,— 
Gives  Vice  to  bloom  its  little  hour, — 

But  Virtue,  late  and  long. 

Luis  DE  CAMOENS  (Portuguese). 

Translation  of  LOUD  STRASQFOBD. 

SOJVMET. 

Now  past  for  me  are  April's  maddening  hours, 

Whose  freshness  feeds  the  vanity  of  youth ; 

A  spring  so  utterly  devoid  of  truth, 

Whose  fruit  is  error,  and  deceit  whose  flowers. 

Gone,  too,  for  me,  is  summer's  sultry  time, 

When  idly,  reasonless,  I  sowed  those  seeds 

Yielding  to  manhood  charms,  now  proving  weeds, 

With  gaudy  colors,  poisoning  as  they  climb. 

And  well  I  fancy  that  they  both  are  flown, 

And  that  beyond  their  tyrant  reach  I'm  placed ; 

But  yet  I  know  not,  if  I  yet  must  taste 

Their  vain  attacks :  my  thoughts  still  make  me  own, 

That  fruits  of  weeds  deceitful  do  not  die, 

When  feelings  sober  not,  as  years  pass  by. 

Luis  DE  CAMOENS  (Portuguese). 

Translation  of  LORD  STRANGTORD. 

O  &JETHL&M  W£  AftE  GOIJVG. 

"  WHILE  to  Bethlem  we  are  going, 
Tell  me,  Bias,  to  cheer  the  road, 

Tell  me  why  this  lovely  infant 
Quitted  his  divine  abode." 

"  From  that  world  to  bring  to  this 
Peace,  which,  of  all  earthly  blisses, 

Is  the  brightest,  purest  bliss." 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  339 

"  Wherefore  from  his  throne  exalted 

Came  he  on  this  earth  to  dwell, — 
All  his  pomp  an  humble  manger, 

All  his  court  a  narrow  cell  ?" 
"  From  that  world  to  bring  to  this 

Peace,  which,  of  all  earthly  blisses, 
Is  the  brightest,  purest  bliss." 

"  Why  did  he,  the  Lord  Eternal, 

Mortal  pilgrim  deign  to  be, — 
He  who  fashioned  for  his  glory 

Boundless  immortality?" 
"  From  that  world  to  bring  to  this 

Peace,  which,  of  all  earthly  blisses, 
Is  the  brightest,  purest  bliss." 

"  Well,  then,  let  us  haste  to  Bethlem, — 

Thither  let  us  haste  and  rest : 
For,  of  all  Heaven's  gifts,  the  sweetest, 

Sure,  is  peace, — the  sweetest,  best." 

VIOLANTE  Do  CEO  (Portuguese}. 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWBINO. 


ZIJYES    WKITT&JV  WRING 
ILLNESS. 

0  GRIEF  beyond  all  other  grief, 

Com'st  thou  the  messenger  of  Death  ? 

Then  come  !  I  court  thy  wished  relief, 
And  pour  with  joy  this  painful  breath. 

But  thou,  my  soul,  what  art  thou  1    Where 
Wing'st  thou  thy  flight,  immortal  flame  ? 

Or  fad'st  thou  into  empty  air, 

A  lamp  burnt  out,  a  sigh,  a  name  ? 


340  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 

I  reck  not  life,  nor  that  with  life 

The  world  and  the  world's  toys  are  o'er : 

But,  ah,  't  is  more  than  mortal  strife 
To  leave  the  loved,  and  love  no  more  ! 

To  leave  her  thus  ! — my  fond  soul  torn 
From  hers,  without  e'en  time  to  tell 

Hers  are  these  tears  and  sighs  that  burn, 
And  hers  this  last  and  wild  farewell ! 

Yes  !  while,  upon  the  awful  brink 
Of  fate,  I  look  to  worlds  above, 

How  happy,  did  I  dare  to  think 

These  last  faint  words  might  greet  my  love 

"  0  ever  loved,  though  loved  in  vain, 
With  such  a  pure  and  ardent  truth 

As  grows  but  once,  and  ne'er  again 
Renews  the  blossom  of  its  youth  ! 

"  To  breathe  the  oft-repeated  vow, 
To  say  my  soul  was  always  thine, 

Were  idle  here.     Live  happy  thou, — 
As  I  had  been,  hadst  thou  been  mine ! " 

Now  grief  and  anguish  drown  my  voice, 
Fresh  pangs  invade  my  breast ;  more  dim 

Earth's  objects  on  my  senses  rise, 
And  forms  receding  round  me  swim. 

Shroud  me  with  thy  dear  guardian  wings, 

Father  of  universal  love  ! 
Be  near  me  now,  with  faith  that  springs 

And  joys  that  bloom  in  worlds  above  ! 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  341 

A  mourner  at  thine  awful  throne, 

I  bring  the  sacrifice  required, — 
A  laden  heart,  its  duties  done, 

By  simple  truth  and  love  inspired : 

Love,  such  as  Heaven  may  well  approve, 

Delighting  most  in  others'  joy, 
Though  mixed  with  errors  such  as  love 

May  pardon,  when  no  crimes  alloy. 

Come,  Friendship,  with  thy  last  sad  rite, 

Thy  pious  office  now  fulfil ! 
One  tear  and  one  plain  stone  requite 

Life's  tale  of  misery  and  ill. 

And  thou,  whose  name  is  mingled  thus 

With  these  last  trembling  thoughts  and  sighs, 

Though  Love  his  fond  regrets  refuse, 
Let  the  soft  voice  of  Friendship  rise, 

And  gently  whisper  in  thine  ear, 

"  He  loves  no  more  who  loved  so  well !" 

And  when  thou  wanderest  through  those  dear, 
Delicious  scenes,  where,  first  to  tell 

The  secrets  of  my  glowing  breast, 

I  led  thee  to  the  shadiest  bower, 
And  at  thy  feet,  absorbed,  oppressed, 

With  faltering  tongue  confessed  thy  power, — 

Then  own  no  truer,  holier  vow 

Was  ever  breathed  in  woman's  ear ; 
And  let  one  gush  of  tears  avow 

That  he  who  loved  thee  once  was  dear. 


342  Moral  and  Didactic  Poems. 


Yet  weep  not  bitterly,  but  say, 

"  He  loved  me  not  as  others  love ; 
Mine,  only  mine,  ere  called  away, — 

Mine,  only  mine  in  heaven  above  ! " 

J.  A.  DA  CUNHA  (Portuguese). 

Translation  of  T.  ROSCOE. 


SINCE  in  this  dreary  vale  of  tears 

No  certainty  but  death  appears, 

Why  should  we  waste  our  vernal  years 

In  hoarding  useless  treasure  ? 

No, — let  the  young  and  ardent  mind 
Become  the  friend  of  human-kind, 
And  in  the  generous  service  find 

A  source  of  purer  pleasure ! 

Better  to  live  despised  and  poor, 
Than  Guilt's  eternal  stings  endure ; 
The  future  smile  of  God  shall  cure 

The  wound  of  earthly  woes. 

Vain  world  !  did  we  but  rightly  feel 
What  ills  thy  treacherous  charms  conceal, 
How  would  we  long  from  thee  to  steal 

To  death, — and  sweet  repose. 

Luis  DE  CAMOF.NS  (Portuguese). 

Translation  of  LORD  STRANGFOBIX 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poems.  343 


WHO   FZIMS    THE  MA2)2>EN>3)    STOftM. 

WHO  flies  the  madden'd  storm,  or  fears  the  lightning's  ire, 
Should  lurk  in  life's  low  vale,  nor  to  proud  heights  aspire. 
The  lowly  roof  may  stand  by  the  fierce  bolt  unriven, 
When  the  loud  tempest  sends  its  mandate  through  the 

heaven 
And  shakes  the  stubborn  rocks  that  lift  their  heads  on 

high, 

Braving  with  granite  crowns  the  blue  and  lofty  sky : — 
It  strikes  the  mighty  tower,  the  monarch's  citadel, 
But  spares  the  clay-built  shed,  where  peace  and  meekness 

dwell. 

Oh !  happy,  happy  he,  whose  generous  soul  can  rise 
Above  the  dross  of  wealth,  or  pomp,  or  vanities  ; 
Scorn  splendor,  pleasure,  fame;  and  say  with  honest  pride, — 
I  have  ye  not,  indeed,  but  yet  am  satisfied. 

JACOB  CATS  (Dutch). 

Translation  of  SIB  JOHN  BOWBINO. 


POEMS    OF    RELIGION. 


THE  CBLXSTIsLL  COVJYTftT. 

THE  world  is  very  evil ; 

The  times  are  waxing  late : 
Be  sober  and  keep  vigil ; 

The  Judge  is  at  the  gate  : 
The  Judge  that  comes  in  mercy, 

The  Judge  that  comes  with  might 
To  terminate  the  evil, 

To  diadem  the  right. 
When  the  just  and  gentle  Monarch 

Shall  summon  from  the  tomb, 
Let  man,  the  guilty,  tremble, 

For  Man,  the  God,  shall  doom. 

Arise,  arise,  good  Christian  ! 

Let  right  to  wrong  succeed  ; 
Let  penitential  sorrow 

To  heavenly  gladness  lead ; 
To  the  light  that  hath  no  evening, 

That  knows  nor  moon  nor  sun, 
The  light  so  new  and  golden, 

The  light  that  is  but  one. 

And  when  the  Sole-Begotten 
Shall  render  up  once  more 


Poems  of  Religion.  345 

The  kingdom  to  the  Father 

Whose  own  it  was  before, — 
Then  glory  yet  unheard  of 

Shall  shed  abroad  its  ray, 
Resolving  all  enigmas, 

An  endless  Sabbath-day. 

Then,  then  from  his  oppressors 

The  Hebrew  shall  go  free, 
And  celebrate  in  triumph 

The  year  of  Jubilee  ; 
And  the  sunlit  land  that  recks  not 

Of  tempest  nor  of  fight, 
Shall  fold  within  its  bosom 

Each  happy  Israelite : 
The  home  of  fadeless  splendor, 

Of  flowers  that  fear  no  thorn, 
Where  they  shall  dwell  as  children, 

Who  here  as  exiles  mourn. 

'Midst  power  that  knows  no  limit, 

And  wisdom  free  from  bound, 
The  Beatific  vision 

Shall  glad  the  saints  around : 
The  peace  of  all  the  faithful, 

The  calm  of  all  the  blest, 
Inviolate,  unvaried, 

Divinest,  sweetest,  best. 
Yes,  peace  !  for  war  is  needless, — 

Yes,  calm  !  for  storm  is  past, — 
And  goal  from  finish'd  labor, 

And  anchorage  at  last. 

That  peace — but  who  may  claim  it? 
The  guileless  in  their  way, 


346  Poems  of  Religion. 

Who  keep  the  ranks  of  battle, 

Who  mean  the  thing  they  say  : 
The  peace  that  is  for  Heaven, 

And  shall  be  for  the  earth : 
The  palace  that  re-echoes 

With  festal  song  and  mirth ; 
The  garden,  breathing  spices, 

The  paradise  on  high ; 
Grace  beautified  to  glory, 

Unceasing  minstrelsy. 

There  nothing  can  be  feeble, 

There  none  can  ever  mourn, 
There  nothing  is  divided, 

There  nothing  can  be  torn : 
'Tis  fury,  ill,  and  scandal, 

'Tis  peaceless  peace  below  ; 
Peace,  endless,  strifeless,  ageless, 

The  halls  of  Sion  know : 

Oh  happy,  holy  portion, 

Refection  for  the  blest ; 
True  vision  of  true  beauty, 

Sweet  cure  of  all  distrest ! 
Strive,  man,  to  win  that  glory ; 

Toil,  man,  to  gain  that  light ; 
Send  hope  before  to  grasp  it, 

Till  hope  be  lost  in  sight : 
Till  Jesus  gives  the  portion 

Those  blessed  souls  to  fill, 
The  insatiate,  yet  satisfied, 

The  full,  yet  craving  still 

That  fulness  and  that  craving 
Alike  are  free  from  pain, 


Poems  of  Religion.  347 

Where  thou,  midst  heavenly  citizens, 

A  home  like  theirs  shalt  gain. 
Here  is  the  warlike  trumpet ; 

There,  life  set  free  from  sin ; 
When  to  the  last  Great  Supper 

The  faithful  shall  come  in : 
When  the  heavenly  net  is  laden 

With  fishes  many  and  great ; 
So  glorious  in  its  fulness, 

Yet  so  inviolate ; 
And  the  perfect  from  the  shatter'd, 

And  the  fall'n  from  them  that  stand, 
And  the  sheep-flock  from  the  goat-herd 

Shall  part  on  either  hand  ! 

And  these  shall  pass  to  torment, 

And  those  shall  triumph,  then ; 
The  new  peculiar  nation, 

Blest  number  of  blest  men. 
Jerusalem  demands  them : 

They  paid  the  price  on  earth, 
And  now  shall  reap  the  harvest 

In  blissfulness  and  mirth : 
The  glorious  holy  people, 

Who  evermore  relied 
Upon  their  Chief  and  Father, 

The  King,  the  Crucified : 
The  sacred  ransom'd  number 

Now  bright  with  endless  sheen, 
Who  made  the  Cross  their  watchword 

Of  Jesus  Nazarene : 
Who,  fed  with  heavenly  nectar, 

Where  soul-like  odors  play, 
Draw  out  the  endless  leisure 

Of  that  long  vernal  day : 


348  Poems  of  Religion. 

And  through  the  sacred  lilies, 

And  flowers  on  every  side, 
The  happy  dear-bought  people 

Go  wandering  far  and  wide. 
Their  breasts  are  filled  with  gladness, 

Their  mouths  are  tuned  to  praise, 
What  time,  now  safe  for  ever, 

On  former  sins  they  gaze  : 
The  fouler  was  the  error, 

The  sadder  was  the  fall, 
The  ampler  are  the  praises 

Of  Him  who  pardon'd  all. 

Their  one  and  only  anthem, 

The  fulness  of  His  love, 
Who  gives  instead  of  torment 

Eternal  joys  above ; 
Instead  of  torment,  glory ; 

Instead  of  death,  that  life 
Wherewith  your  happy  country, 

True  Israelites,  is  rife. 

Brief  life  is  here  our  portion, 
Brief  sorrow,  short-lived  care, 

The  life  that  knows  no  ending, 
The  tearless  life,  is  there. 

0  happy  retribution ! 

Short  toil,  eternal  rest, 
For  mortals  and  for  sinners 

A  mansion  with  the  blest ! 
That  we  should  look,  poor  wand'rers, 

To  have  our  home  on  high  ! 
That  worms  should  seek  for  dwellings 

Beyond  the  starry  sky  ! 


Poems  of  Religion.  349 

To  all  one  happy  guerdon 

Of  one  celestial  grace ; 
For  all,  for  all,  who  mourn  their  fall, 

Is  one  eternal  place. 

And  martyrdom  hath  roses 

Upon  that  heavenly  ground, 
And  white  and  virgin  lilies 

For  virgin-souls  abound. 
There  grief  is  turn'd  to  pleasure, 

Such  pleasure  as  below 
No  human  voice  can  utter, 

No  human  heart  can  know ; 
And  after  fleshly  scandal, 

And  after  this  world's  night, 
And  after  storm  and  whirlwind, 

Is  calm,  and  joy,  and  light. 

And  now  we  fight  the  battle, 

But  then  shall  wear  the  crown 
Of  full  and  everlasting 

And  passionless  renown ; 
And  now  we  watch  and  struggle, 

And  now  we  live  in  hope, 
And  Sion,  in  her  anguish, 

With  Babylon  must  cope ; 
But  He  whom  now  we  trust  in 

Shall  then  be  seen  and  known, 
And  they  that  know  and  see  Him 

Shall  have  Him  for  their  own. 

The  miserable  pleasures 

Of  the  body  shall  decay ; 
The  bland  and  flattering  struggles 

Of  the  flesh  shall  pass  away, 


350  Poems  of  Religion. 

And  none  shall  there  be  jealous, 
And  none  shall  there  contend ; 

Fraud,  clamor,  guile — what  say  I  ? 
All  ill,  all  ill  shall  end ! 

And  there  is  David's  Fountain, 

And  life  in  fullest  glow, 
And  there  the  light  is  golden, 

And  milk  and  honey  flow ; 
The  light  that  hath  no  evening, 

The  health  that  hath  no  sore, 
The  life  that  hath  no  ending, 

But  lasteth  evermore. 

There  Jesus  shall  embrace  us, 

There  Jesus  be  embraced, — 
That  spirit's  food  and  sunshine 

Whence  earthly  love  is  chased. 
Amidst  the  happy  chorus, 

A  place,  however  low, 
Shall  show  Him  us,  and  showing, 

Shall  satiate  evermo. 

By  hope  we  struggle  onward, 

While  here  we  must  be  fed 
By  milk,  as  tender  infants, 

But  there  by  Living  Bread. 
The  night  was  full  of  terror, 

The  morn  is  bright  with  gladness ; 
The  Cross  becomes  our  harbor, 

And  we  triumph  after  sadness. 

And  Jesus  to  His  true  ones 
Brings  trophies  fair  to  see, 


Poems  of  Religion.  351 

And  Jesus  shall  be  loved,  and 

Beheld  in  Galilee ; 
Beheld,  when  morn  shall  waken, 

And  shadows  shall  decay, 
And  each  true-hearted  servant 

Shall  shine  as  doth  the  day ; 
And  every  ear  shall  hear  it, — 

Behold  thy  King's  array, 
Behold  thy  God  in  beauty, 

The  Law  hath  past  away ! 

Yes  !  God  my  King  and  Portion, 

In  fulness  of  His  grace, 
We  then  shall  see  for  ever, 

And  worship  face  to  face. 
Then  Jacob  into  Israel, 

From  earthlier  self  estranged, 
And  Leah  into  Rachel, 

For  ever  shall  be  changed : 
Then  all  the  halls  of  Sion 

For  aye  shall  be  complete, 
And,  in  the  Land  of  Beauty, 

All  things  of  beauty  meet. 

For  thee,  oh  dear,  dear  Country  ! 

Mine  eyes  their  vigils  keep ; 
For  very  love,  beholding 

Thy  happy  name,  they  weep : 
The  mention  of  thy  glory 

Is  unction  to  the  breast, 
And  medicine  in  sickness, 

And  love,  and  life,  and  rest. 

O  one,  0  onely  Mansion ! 
0  Paradise  of  Joy  ! 


352  Poems  of  Religion. 

Where  tears  are  ever  banish'd 

And  smiles  have  no  alloy ; 
Beside  thy  living  waters 

All  plants  are,  great  and  small, 
The  cedar  of  the  forest, 

The  hyssop  of  the  wall : 
With  jaspers  glow  thy  bulwarks  ; 

Thy  streets  with  emeralds  blaze  ; 
The  sardius  and  the  topaz 

Unite  in  thee  their  rays  : 
Thine  ageless  walls  are  bonded 

With  amethyst  unpriced : 
Thy  Saints  build  up  its  fabric, 

And  the  corner-stone  is  Christ. 

The  Cross  is  all  thy  splendor, 

The  Crucified  thy  praise  : 
His  laud  and  benediction 

Thy  ransom'd  people  raise  : 
Jesus,  the  Gem  of  Beauty, 

True  God  and  Man,  they  sing : 
The  never-failing  Garden, 

The  ever-golden  Ring : 
The  Door,  the  Pledge,  the  Husband, 

The  Guardian  of  his  Court : 
The  Day-star  of  Salvation, 

The  Porter  and  the  Port. 

Thou  hast  no  shore,  fair  ocean  ! 

Thou  hast  no  time,  bright  day  ! 
Dear  fountain  of  refreshment 

To  pilgrims  far  away  ! 
Upon  the  Rock  of  Ages 

They  raise  thy  holy  tower : 
Thine  is  the  victor's  laurel, 

And  thine  the  golden  dower : 


Poems  of  Religion.  353 

Thou  feel'st  in  mystic  rapture, 

0  Bride  that  know'st  no  guile, 
The  Prince's  sweetest  kisses, 

The  Prince's  loveliest  smile ; 
Unfading  lilies,  bracelets 

Of  living  pearl  thine  own ; 
The  Lamb  is  ever  near  thee, 

The  Bridegroom  thine  alone ; 
The  Crown  is  He  to  guerdon, 

The  Buckler  to  protect, 
And  He  Himself  the  Mansion, 

And  He  the  Architect. 

The  only  art  thou  needest, 

Thanksgiving  for  thy  lot : 
The  only  joy  thou  seekest, 

The  Life  where  Death  is  not ; 
And  all  thy  endless  leisure 

In  sweetest  accents  sings, 
The  ill  that  was  thy  merit, — 

The  wealth  that  is  thy  King's ! 

Jerusalem  the  golden, 

With  milk  and  honey  blest, 
Beneath  thy  contemplation 

Sink  heart  and  voice  oppress'd : 
I  know  not,  oh  I  know  not, 

What  social  joys  are  there ; 
What  radiancy  of  glory, 

What  light  beyond  compare  ! 

And  when  I  fain  would  sing  them, 

My  spirit  fails  and  faints  : 
And  vainly  would  it  image 

The  assembly  of  the  Saints. 


354  Poems  of  Religion. 

They  stand,  those  halls  of  Sion, 

Conjubilant  with  song, 
And  bright  with  many  an  angel, 

And  all  the  martyr  throng  : 
The  Prince  is  ever  in  them ; 

The  daylight  is  serene ; 
The  pastures  of  the. Blessed 

Are  deck'd  in  glorious  sheen. 

There  is  the  Throne  of  David, — 

And  there,  from  care  released, 
The  song  of  them  that  triumph, 

The  shout  of  them  that  feast ; 
And  they  who,  with  their  Leader, 

Have  conquer'd  in  the  fight, 
For  ever  and  for  ever 

Are  clad  in  robes  of  white  ! 

O  holy,  placid  harp-notes 

Of  that  eternal  hymn  ! 
O  sacred,  sweet  refection, 

And  peace  of  Seraphim  ! 
0  thirst  for  ever  ardent, 

Yet  evermore  content ! 
0  true  peculiar  vision 

Of  God  cunctipotent ! 
Ye  know  the  many  mansions 

For  many  a  glorious  name, 
And  divers  retributions 

That  divers  merits  claim  : 
For  'midst  the  constellations 

That  deck  our  earthly  sky, 
This  star  than  that  is  brighter, — 

And  so  it  is  on  high. 


Poems  of  Religion.  355 

Jerusalem  the  glorious  ! 

The  glory  of  the  Elect ! 
0  dear  and  future  vision 

That  eager  hearts  expect : 
Even  now  by  faith  I  see  thee  : 

Even  here  thy  walls  discern ; 
To  thee  my  thoughts  are  kindled, 

And  strive  and  pant  and  yearn : 

Jerusalem  the  onely, 

That  look'st  from  Heaven  below, 
In  thee  is  all  my  glory ; 

In  me  is  all  my  woe : 
And  though  my  body  may  not, 

My  spirit  seeks  thee  fain, 
Till  flesh  and  earth  return  me 

To  earth  and  flesh  again. 

Oh  none  can  tell  thy  bulwarks, 

How  gloriously  they  rise  : 
Oh  none  can  tell  thy  capitals 

Of  beautiful  device : 
Thy  loveliness  oppresses 

All  human  thought  and  heart : 
And  none,  0  Peace,  0  Sion, 

Can  sing  thee  as  thou  art. 

New  mansion  of  new  people, 

Whom  God's  own  love  and  light 
Promote,  increase,  make  holy, 

Identify,  unite. 
Thou  City  of  the  Angels  ! 

Thou  City  of  the  Lord ! 
Whose  everlasting  music 

Is  the  glorious  decachord  ! 


356  Poems  of  Religion. 

And  there  the  band  of  Prophets 

United  praise  ascribes, 
And  there  the  twelvefold  chorus 

Of  Israel's  ransom 'd  tribes  : 
The  lily-beds  of  virgins, 

The  roses'  martyr-glow, 
The  cohort  of  the  Fathers 

Who  kept  the  faith  below. 

And  there  the  Sole-Begotten 

Is  Lord  in  regal  state  ; 
lie,  Judah's  mystic  Lion, 

He,  Lamb  Immaculate. 
O  fields  that  know  no  sorrow ! 

0  state  that  fears  no  strife  ! 

0  princely  bow'rs  !  O  land  of  flow'rs ! 

0  realm  and  home  of  life  ! 

Jerusalem,  exulting 
On  that  securest  shore, 

1  hope  thee,  wish  thee,  sing  thee, 
And  love  thee  evermore  ! 

I  ask  not  for  my  merit : 

1  seek  not  to  deny 
My  merit  is  destruction, 

A  child  of  wrath  am  I : 
But  yet  with  Faith  I  venture 

And  Hope  upon  my  way ; 
For  those  perennial  guerdons 

I  labor  night  and  day. 

The  best  and  dearest  Father 
Who  made  me,  and  who  saved, 

Bore  with  me  in  defilement 
And  from  defilement  laved ; 


Poems  of  Religion.  357 

When  in  His  strength  I  struggle, 

For  very  joy  I  leap, 
When  in  my  sin  I  totter, 

I  weep,  or  try  to  weep ; 
And  grace,  sweet  grace  celestial, 

Shall  all  its  love  display, 
And  David's  royal  Fountain 

Purge  every  sin  away. 

0  mine,  my  golden  Sion  ! 

0  lovelier  far  than  gold ! 
With  laurel-girt  battalions, 

And  safe  victorious  fold  ; 
O  sweet  and  blessad  country, 

Shall  I  ever  see  thy  face  ? 

0  sweet  and  blessed  country, 
Shall  I  ever  win  thy  grace  ? 

1  have  the  hope  within  me 
To  comfort  and  to  bless  ! 

Shall  I  ever  win  the  prize  itself  ? 
Oh,  tell  nie,  tell  me,  Yes ! 

Exult,  0  dust  and  ashes  ! 

The  Lord  shall  be  thy  part ; 
His  only,  His  for  ever, 

Thou  shalt  be,  and  thou  art ! 
Exult,  0  dust  and  ashes  ! 

The  Lord  shall  be  thy  part ; 
His  only,  His  for  ever, 

Thou  shalt  be,  and  thou  art ! 

BERNARD  OF  CLUNY  (Latin). 

Translation  of  JOHN  MASON  NEALE. 


358  Poems  of  Religion. 


DAY  of  vengeance,  without  morrow  ! 
Earth  shall  end  in  flame  and  sorrow, 
As  from  saint  and  seer  we  borrow. 

Ah  !  what  terror  is  impending, 
When  the  Judge  is  seen  descending, 
And  each  secret  veil  is  rending  ! 

To  the  throne,  the  trumpet  sounding, 
Through  the  sepulchres  resounding, 
Summons  all,  with  voice  astounding. 

Death  and  Nature,  'mazed,  are  quaking, 
When,  the  grave's  long  slumber  breaking, 
Man  to  judgment  is  awaking. 

On  the  written  volume's  pages 
Life  is  shown  in  all  its  stages, — 
Judgment-record  of  past  ages  ! 

Sits  the  Judge,  the  raised  arraigning, 
Darkest  mysteries  explaining, 
Nothing  unavenged  remaining. 

What  shall  I  then  say,  unfriended, 

By  no  advocate  attended, 

When  the  just  are  scarce  defended? 

King  of  majesty  tremendous, 
By  Thy  saving  grace  defend  us, 
Fount  of  pity,  safety  send  us ! 

Holy  Jesus,  meek,  forbearing, 

For  my  sins  the  death-crown  wearing, 

Save  me,  in  that  day,  despairing. 


Poems  of  Religion.  359 

Worn  and  weary,  Thou  hast  sought  me, 
By  Thy  cross  and  passion  bought  me, — 
Spare  the  hope  Thy  labors  brought  me. 

Righteous  Judge  of  retribution, 
Give,  oh,  give  me  absolution 
Ere  the  day  of  dissolution. 

As  a  guilty  culprit  groaning, 
Flush'd  my  face,  my  errors  owning, 
Hear,  O  God,  my  spirit's  moaning ! 

Thou  to  Mary  gav'st  remission, 
Heard'st  the  dying  thief's  petition, 
Bad'st  me  hope  in  my  contrition. 

In  my  prayers  no  grace  discerning, 
Yet  on  me  Thy  favor  turning, 
Save  my  soul  from  endless  burning. 

Give  me,  when  thy  sheep  confiding 
Thou  art  from  the  goats  dividing, 
On  Thy  right  a  place  abiding ! 

When  the  wicked  are  confounded, 
And  by  bitter  flames  surrounded, 
Be  my  joyful  pardon  sounded. 

Prostrate,  all  my  guilt  discerning, 
Heart  as  though  to  ashes  turning, 
Save,  oh,  save  me  from  the  burning  1 

Day  of  weeping,  when  from  ashes 
Man  shall  rise  'mid  lightning-flashes, 
Guilty,  trembling  with  contrition, 
Save  him,  Father,  from  perdition  ! 

THOMAS  DE  CELANO  (Latin).    Translation  of  JOBS  A.  Dix. 


360  Poems  of  Religion. 


STOOD  the  afflicted  mother  weeping 
Near  the  cross  her  station  keeping 

Whereon  hung  her  Son  and  Lord ; 
Through  whose  spirit  sympathizing, 
Sorrowing  and  agonizing, 

Also  passed  the  cruel  sword. 

Oh  !  how  mournful  and  distressed 
Was  that  favored  and  most  blessed 

Mother  of  the  only  Son  ! 
Trembling,  grieving,  bosom  heaving, 
While  perceiving,  scarce  believing, 

Pains  of  that  Illustrious  One. 

Who  the  man,  who,  called  a  brother, 
Would  not  weep,  saw  he  Christ's  mother 

In  such  deep  distress  and  wild? 
Who  could  not  sad  tribute  render 
Witnessing  that  mother  tender 

Agonizing  with  her  child  ? 

For  His  people's  sins  atoning, 
Him  she  saw  in  torments  groaning, 

Given  to  the  scourger's  rod ; 
Saw  her  darling  offspring  dying, 
Desolate,  forsaken,  crying, 

Yield  His  spirit  up  to  God. 

Make  me  feel  thy  sorrow's  power, 
That  with  thee  I  tears  may  shower, 

Tender  mother,  fount  of  love  ! 
Make  my  heart  with  love  unceasing 
Burn  toward  Christ  the  Lord,  that  pleasing 

I  may  be  to  Him  above. 


Poems  of  Religion.  361 

Holy  mother,  this  be  granted, 

That  the  slain  one's  wounds  be  planted 

Firmly  in  my  heart  to  bide. 
Of  Him  wounded,  all  astounded — 
Depths  unbounded  for  me  founded, 

All  the  pangs  with  me  divide. 

Make  me  weep  with  thee  in  union ; 
With  the  Crucified,  communion 

In  His  grief  and  suffering  give ; 
Near  the  cross  with  tears  unfailing 
I  would  join  thee  in  thy  wailing 

Here  as  long  as  I  shall  live. 

Maid  of  maidens,  all  excelling ! 
Be  not  bitter,  me  repelling, 

Make  thou  me  a  mourner  too ; 
Make  me  bear  about  Christ's  dying, 
Share  His  passion,  shame  defying ; 

All  His  wounds  in  me  renew. 

Wound  for  wound  be  there  created ; 
With  the  cross  intoxicated 

For  thy  Son's  dear  sake,  I  pray — 
May  I,  fired  with  pure  affection, 
Virgin,  have  through  thee  protection 

In  the  solemn  Judgment  Day. 

Let  me  by  the  Cross  be  warded, 
By  the  death  of  Christ  be  guarded, 

Nourished  by  divine  supplies. 
When  the  body  death  hath  riven, 
Grant  that  to  the  soul  be  given 

Glories  bright  of  Paradise. 

JACOBUS  DE  BENEDICTIS  (Latin). 

Translation  of  ABRAHAM  COLES. 
31 


362  Poems  of  Religion. 


FOLLOW  that  fervor,  O  devoted  spirit, 

"With  which  thy  Saviour's  goodness  fires  thy  breast ! 
Go  where  it  draws,  and  when  it  calls,  oh,  hear  it ! 

It  is  thy  Shepherd's  voice,  and  leads  to  rest. 

In  this  thy  new  devotedness  of  feeling, 

Suspicion,  envy,  anger,  have  no  claim ; 
Sure  hope  is  highest  happiness  revealing, 

With  peace,  and  gentleness,  and  purest  fame. 

For  in  thy  holy  and  thy  happy  sadness 

If  tears  or  sighs  are  sometimes  sown  by  thee, 

In  the  pure  regions  of  immortal  gladness 
Sweet  and  eternal  shall  thine  harvest  be. 

Leave  them  to  say, — "  This  people's  meditation 
Is  vain  and  idle  ! " — sit  with  ear  and  eye 

Fixed  upon  Christ,  in  childlike  dedication, 
0  thou  inhabitant  of  Bethany  ! 

LORENZO  DE  MEDICI  (Italian). 

Translation  in  LONDON  MAGAZINE, 


OftAZIOJVE. 

ALL  nature,  hear  the  sacred  song ! 

Attend,  0  earth,  the  solemn  strain ! 
Ye  whirlwinds  wild  that  sweep  along, 

Ye  darkening  storms  of  beating  rain, 
Umbrageous  glooms,  and  forests  drear, 
And  solitary  deserts,  hear  ! 
Be  still,  ye  winds,  whilst  to  the  Maker's  praise 
The  creature  of  His  power  aspires  his  voice  to  raise ! 


Poems  of  Religion.  363 

Oh,  may  the  solemn-breathing  sound 

Like  incense  rise  before  the  throne, 
Where  He,  whose  glory  knows  no  bound, 
Great  Cause  of  all  things,  dwells  alone  ! 
"Tis  He  I  sing,  whose  powerful  hand 
Balanced  the  skies,  outspread  the  land ; 
Who  spoke, — from  ocean's  stores  sweet  waters  came, 
And  burst  resplendent  forth  the  heaven-aspiring  flame. 

One  general  song  of  praise  arise 

To  Him  whose  goodness  ceaseless  flows ; 
Who  dwells  enthroned  beyond  the  skies, 

And  life  and  breath  on  all  bestows ! 
Great  Source  of  intellect,  His  ear 
Benign  receives  our  vows  sincere  : 
Kise,  then,  my  active  powers,  your  task  fulfil, 
And  give  to  Him  your  praise,  responsive  to  my  will ! 

Partaker  of  that  living  stream 

Of  light,  that  pours  an  endless  blaze, 
Oh,  let  thy  strong  reflected  beam, 

My  understanding,  speak  His  praise  ! 
My  soul,  in  steadfast  love  secure, 
Praise  Him  whose  word  is  ever  sure : 
To  Him,  sole  just,  my  sense  of  right  incline  : 
Join,  every  prostrate  limb ;  my  ardent  spirit,  join ! 

Let  all  of  good  this  bosom  fires, 

To  Him,  sole  good,  give  praises  due : 
Let  all  the  truth  Himself  inspires 

Unite  to  sing  Him  only  true  : 
To  Him  my  every  thought  ascend, 
To  Him  my  hopes,  my  wishes,  bend : 
From  earth's  wide  bounds  let  louder  hymns  arise, 
And  His  own  word  convey  the  pious  sacrifice ! 


364  Poems  of  Religion. 

In  ardent  adoration  joined, 

Obedient  to  Thy  holy  will, 
Let  all  my  faculties  combined, 

Thy  just  desires,  0  God,  fulfil ! 
From  Thee  derived,  Eternal  King, 
To  Thee  our  noblest  powers  we  bring : 
Oh,  may  Thy  hand  direct  our  wandering  way ! 
Oh,  bid  Thy  light  arise,  and  chase  the  clouds  away ! 

Eternal  Spirit,  whose  command 

Light,  life,  and  being  gave  to  all, 
O,  hear  the  creature  of  Thy  hand, 

Man,  constant  on  Thy  goodness  call ! 
By  fire,  by  water,  air,  and  earth, 
That  soul  to  Thee  that  owes  its  birth, — 
By  these,  he  supplicates  Thy  blest  repose  : 
Absent  from  Thee,  no  rest  his  wandering  spirit  knows. 

LORENZO  DE  MEDICI  (Italian). 

Translation  of  W.  ROSCOE. 

GO3). 

0  THOU  eternal  One !  whose  presence  bright 

All  space  doth  occupy,  all  motion  guide ; 
Unchanged  through  time's  all-devastating  flight ; 

Thou  only  God  !    There  is  no  God  beside  ! 
Being  above  all  beings  !    Mighty  One  ! 

Whom  none  can  comprehend  and  none  explore ; 
Who  fill'st  existence  with  Thyself  alone  : 

Embracing  all, — supporting — ruling  o'er, — 
Being  whom  we  call  God — and  know  no  more  ! 

In  its  sublime  research,  philosophy 

May  measure  out  the  ocean-deep,  may  count 

The  sands  or  the  sun's  rays — but,  God  !  for  Thee 
There  is  no  weight  nor  measure  :  none  can  mount 


Poems  of  Religion.  365 

Up  to  Thy  mysteries :  Reason's  brightest  spark, 
Though  kindled  by  Thy  light,  in  vain  would  try 

To  trace  Thy  counsels,  infinite  and  dark : 

And  thought  is  lost  ere  thought  can  soar  so  high, 
Even  like  past  moments  in  eternity. 

Thou  from  primeval  nothingness  didst  call 

First  chaos,  then  existence ;  Lord  !  on  Thee 
Eternity  had  its  foundation  :  all 

Sprung  forth  from  Thee  :  of  light,  joy,  harmony, 
Sole  origin  :  all  life,  all  beauty  Thine. 

Thy  word  created  all,  and  doth  create ; 
Thy  splendor  fills  all  space  with  rays  divine. 

Thou  art,  and  wert,  and  shalt  be  !  Glorious  !  Great ! 

Light-giving,  life-sustaining  Potentate ! 

Thy  chains  the  unmeasured  universe  surround : 
Upheld  by  Thee,  by  Thee  inspired  with  breath ! 

Thou  the  beginning  with  the  end  hast  bound, 
And  beautifully  mingled  life  and  death  ! 

As  sparks  mount  upwards  from  the  fiery  blaze, 

So  suns  are  born,  so  worlds  spring  forth  from  Thee ; 

And  as  the  spangles  in  the  sunny  rays 

Shine  round  the  silver  snow,  the  pageantry 
Of  Heaven's  bright  army  glitters  in  Thy  praise. 

A  million  torches  lighted  by  Thy  hand 

"Wander  unwearied  through  the  blue  abyss : 
They  own  Thy  power,  accomplish  Thy  command, 

All  gay  with  life,  all  eloquent  with  bliss. 
What  shall  we  call  them  ?    Piles  of  crystal  light — 

A  glorious  company  of  golden  streams — 
Lamps  of  celestial  ether  burning  bright — 

Suns  lighting  systems  with  their  joyous  beams? 

But  Thou  to  these  art  as  the  noon  to-night. 


366  Poems  of  Religion. 

Yes  !  as  a  drop  of  water  in  the  sea, 
All  this  magnificence  in  Thee  is  lost : 

What  are  ten  thousand  worlds  compared  to  Thee? 
And  what  am  /  then  ?    Heaven's  unnumber'd  host, 

Though  multiplied  by  myriads,  and  arrayed 
In  all  the  glory  of  sublimest  thought, 

Is  but  an  atom  in  the  balance  weighed 

Against  Thy  greatness ;  is  a  cipher  brought 
Against  infinity  !    What  am  I  then  1    Nought ! 

Nought !    But  the  effluence  of  Thy  light  divine, 

Pervading  worlds,  hath  reach'd  my  bosom  too ; 
Yes  !  in  my  spirit  doth  Thy  spirit  shine 

As  shines  the  sunbeam  in  a  drop  of  dew. 
Nought !  but  I  live,  and  on  hope's  pinions  fly 

Eager  towards  Thy  presence ;  for  in  Thee 
I  live,  and  breathe,  and  dwell ;  aspiring  high, 

Even  to  the  throne  of  thy  divinity. 

1  am,  0  God !  and  surely  Thou  must  be ! 

Thou  art !  directing,  guiding  all,  Thou  art ! 

Direct  my  understanding  then  to  Thee ; 
Control  my  spirit,  guide  my  wandering  heart : 

Though  but  an  atom  midst  immensity, 
Still  I  am  something,  fashioned  by  Thy  hand  ! 

I  hold  a  middle  rank  'twixt  Heaven  and  earth, 
On  the  last  verge  of  mortal  being  stand, 

Close  to  the  realms  where  angels  have  their  birth, 

Just  on  the  boundaries  of  the  spirit-land ! 

The  chain  of  being  is  complete  in  me ; 

In  me  is  matter's  last  gradation  lost, 
And  the  next  step  is  spirit — Deity  ! 

I  can  command  the  lightning,  and  am  dust ! 


Poems  of  Religion.  367 

A  monarch,  and  a  slave ;  a  worm,  a  god ! 

Whence  came  I  here,  and  how  ?  so  marvellously 
Constructed  and  conceived  ?  unknown  !  this  clod 

Lives  surely  through  some  higher  energy ; 

For  from  itself  alone  it  could  not  be  ! 

Creator,  yes  !  Thy  wisdom  and  Thy  word 
Created  me!    Thou  source  of  life  and  good  ! 

Thou  spirit  of  my  spirit,  and  my  Lord ! 

Thy  light,  Thy  love,  in  their  bright  plenitude 

Filled  me  with  an  immortal  soul,  to  spring 
Over  the  abyss  of  death,  and  bade  it  wear 

The  garments  of  eternal  day,  and  wing 

Its  heavenly  flight  beyond  this  little  sphere, 
Even  to  its  source — to  Thee — its  Author  there. 

0  thoughts  ineffable  !  O  visions  blest ! 

Though  worthless  our  conceptions  all  of  Thee, 
Yet  shall  Thy  shadowed  image  fill  our  breast, 

And  waft  its  homage  to  Thy  Deity. 
God  !  thus  alone  my  lowly  thoughts  can  soar ; 

Thus  seek  Thy  presence,  Being  wise  and  good ! 
'Midst  Thy  vast  works  admire,  obey,  adore ; 
And  when  the  tongue  is  eloquent  no  more, 

The  soul  shall  speak  in  tears  of  gratitude. 

GABRIEL  BOMANOVICH  DERZHAVIN  (R-itssian). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWRINGL 


TRUST  IJV 

COMMIT  thou  all  thy  griefs 
And  ways  into  His  hands ; 
To  His  sure  truth  and  tender  care, 
Who  earth  and  heaven  commands. 


368  Poems  of  Religion. 


Who  points  the  clouds  their  course, 
Whom  winds  and  seas  obey ; 
He  shall  direct  thy  wand'ring  feet, 
He  shall  prepare  thy  way. 

Thou  on  the  Lord  rely, 
So  safe  shalt  thou  go  on ; 
Fix  on  His  work  thy  steadfast  eye, 
So  shall  thy  work  be  done. 

No  profit  canst  thou  gain 
By  self-consuming  care ; 
To  Him  commend  thy  cause,  His  ear 
Attends  the  softest  prayer. 

Thy  everlasting  truth, 
Father,  thy  ceaseless  love 
Sees  all  Thy  children's  wants,  and  knows 
What  best  for  each  will  prove : 

And  whatsoe'er  thou  will'st 
Thou  dost,  0  King  of  kings ; 
What  Thy  unerring  wisdom  chose, 
Thy  power  to  being  brings. 

Thou  everywhere  hast  way, 
And  all  things  serve  Thy  might ; 
Thy  every  act  pure  blessing  is, 
Thy  path  unsullied  light. 

When  thou  arisest,  Lord, 
What  shall  Thy  work  withstand  ? 
When  all  Thy  children  want  Thou  giv'st, 
Who,  who  shall  stay  Thine  hand  1 


Poems  of  Religion.  369 

Give  to  the  winds  thy  fears ; 
Hope,  and  be  undismayed ; 
God  hears  thy  sighs,  and  counts  thy  tears, 
God  shall  lift  up  thy  head. 

Through  waves,  and  clouds,  and  storms 
He  gently  clears  thy  way ; 
Wait  thou  His  time,  so  shall  this  night 
Soon  end  in  joyous  day. 

Still  heavy  is  thy  heart  1 
Still  sink  thy  spirits  down? 
Cast  off  the  weight,  let  fear  depart, 
And  every  care  be  gone. 

What  though  thou  rulest  not  1 
Yet  heaven,  and  earth,  and  hell 
Proclaim,  God  sitteth  on  the  throne, 
And  ruleth  all  things  well. 

Leave  to  His  sovereign  sway 
To  choose,  and  to  command ; 
So  shalt  thou  wond'ring  own  His  way 
How  wise,  how  strong  His  hand. 

Far,  far  above  thy  thought 
His  counsel  shall  appear, 
When  fully  He  the  work  hath  wrought, 
That  caused  thy  needless  fear. 

Thou  seest  our  weakness,  Lord, 
Our  hearts  are  known  to  Thee ; 
Oh,  lift  Thou  up  the  sinking  hand, 
Confirm  the  feeble  knee  ! 


370  Poems  of  Religion. 

Let  us  in  life,  in  death, 
Thy  steadfast  truth  declare, 
And  publish  with  our  latest  breath 
Thy  love  and  guardian  care. 

PAUL  GERHABDT  (German). 

Translation  of  CHARLES  WESLEY. 

HYMJV. 

A  HYMN  more,  O  my  lyre  ! 

Praise  to  the  God  above, 

Of  joy,  and  life,  and  love, 
Sweeping  its  strings  of  fire  ! 

Oh,  who  the  speed  of  bird  and  wind 
And  sunbeam's  glance  will  lend  to  me, 

That,  soaring  upward,  I  may  find 
My  resting-place  and  home  in  Thee  ? 

Thou,  whom  my  soul,  'midst  doubt  and  gloom, 
Adoreth  with  a  fervent  flame, — 

Mysterious  Spirit !  unto  whom 
Pertains  nor  sign  nor  name  ! 

Swiftly  my  lyre's  soft  murmurs  go 
Up  from  the  cold  and  joyless  earth, 

Back  to  the  God  who  bade  them  flow, 
Whose  moving  spirit  sent  them  forth : 

But  as  for  me,  O  God !  for  me, 
The  lowly  creature  of  Thy  will, 

Lingering  and  sad,  I  sigh  to  Thee, 
An  earth-bound  pilgrim  still ! 

Was  not  my  spirit  born  to  shine 

Where  yonder  stars  and  suns  are  glowing  ? 

To  breathe  with  them  the  light  divine, 
From  God's  own  holy  altar  flowing  ? 


Poems  of  Religion.  371 

To  be,  indeed,  whate'er  the  soul 

In  dreams  hath  thirsted  for  so  long, — 
A  portion  of  Heaven's  glorious  whole 
Of  loveliness  and  song  ? 

O  watchers  of  the  stars  of  night, 

Who  breathe  their  fire,  as  we  the  air, — 

Suns,  thunders,  stars,  and  rays  of  light, 
Oh,  say,  is  HE,  the  Eternal,  there? 

Bend  there  around  His  awful  throne 
The  seraph's  glance,  the  angel's  knee  ? 

Or  are  thy  inmost  depths  His  own, 
0  wild  and  mighty  sea  1 

Thoughts  of  my  soul !  how  swift  ye  go — 

Swift  as  the  eagle's  glance  of  fire, 
Or  arrows  from  the  archer's  bow — 

To  the  far  aim  of  your  desire  ! 
Thought  after  thought,  ye  thronging  rise, 

Like  spring-doves  from  the  startled  wood, 
Bearing  like  them  your  sacrifice 
Of  music  unto  God ! 

And  shall  there  thoughts  of  joy  and  love 

Come  back  again  no  more  to  me, — 
Eeturning,  like  the  Patriarch's  dove, 

Wing-weary,  from  the  eternal  sea, 
To  bear  within  my  longing  arms 

The  promise-bough  of  kindlier  skies, 
Plucked  from  the  green,  immortal  palms 
Which  shadow  paradise  ? 

All-moving  Spirit !  freely  forth, 

At  Thy  command,  the  strong  wind  goes 


372  Poems  of  Religion. 

Its  errand  to  the  passive  earth ; 

Nor  art  can  stay,  nor  strength  oppose, 
Until  it  folds  its  weary  wing 

Once  more  within  the  hand  divine : 
So,  weary  of  each  earthly  thing, 
My  spirit  turns  to  Thine  ! 

Child  of  the  sea,  the  mountain-stream 

From  its  dark  caverns  hurries  on 
Ceaseless,  by  night  and  morning's  beam, 

By  evening's  star  and  noontide's  sun, — 
Until  at  last  it  sinks  to  rest, 

O'erwearied,  in  the  waiting  sea, 

And  moans  upon  its  mother's  breast : 

So  turns  my  soul  to  Thee ! 

0  Thou  who  bidd'st  the  torrent  flow, 
Who  lendest  wings  unto  the  wind, — 

Mover  of  all  things  !  where  art  Thou  1 
Oh,  whither  shall  I  go  to  find 

The  secret  of  Thy  resting-place  ? 
Is  there  no  holy  wing  for  me, 

That,  soaring,  I  may  search  the  space 
Of  highest  heaven  for  Thee  ? 

Oh,  would  I  were  as  free  to  rise, 

As  leaves  on  autumn's  whirlwind  borne, 

The  arrowy  light  of  sunset  skies, 
Or  sound,  or  ray,  or  star  of  morn, 

Which  melts  in  heaven  at  twilight's  close, 
Or  aught  which  soars  unchecked  and  free, 

Through  earth  and  heaven, — that  I  might  lose 
Myself  in  finding  Thee  ! 

ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE  (French). 

Traiislation  in  KNICKERBOCKER. 


Poems  of  Religion.  373 


THE  LIFE  Of  THE 

Eegion  of  life  and  light ! 
Lord  of  the  good  whose  earthly  toils  are  o'er  ! 

Nor  frost  nor  heat  may  blight 

Thy  vernal  beauty,  fertile  shore, 
Yielding  thy  blessed  fruits  forevermore. 

There,  without  crook  or  sling, 
Walks  the  Good  Shepherd ;  blossoms  white  and  red 

Kound  His  meek  temples  cling  ; 

And  to  sweet  pastures  led, 
His  own  loved  flock  beneath  His  eye  is  fed. 

He  guides,  and  near  Him  they 
Follow  delighted  ;  for  He  makes  them  go 

Where  dwells  eternal  May, 

And  heavenly  roses  blow, 
Deathless,  and  gathered  but  again  to  grow. 

He  leads  them  to  the  height 
Named  of  the  infinite  and  long-sought  Good, 

And  fountains  of  delight ; 

And  where  His  feet  have  stood, 
Springs  up,  along  the  way,  their  tender  food. 

And  when,  in  the  mid  skies, 
The  climbing  sun  has  reached  his  highest  bound, 

Reposing  as  He  lies, 

With  all  his  flock  around, 
He  witches  the  still  air  with  numerous  sound. 

From  His  sweet  lute  flow  forth 
Immortal  harmonies,  of  power  to  still 


374  Poems  of  Religion. 

All  passions  born  of  earth 
And  draw  the  ardent  will 
Its  destiny  of  goodness  to  fulfil 

Might  but  a  little  part, 
A  wandering  breath,  of  that  high  melody 

Descend  into  my  heart, 

And  change  it  till  it  be 
Transformed  and  swallowed  up,  O  Love  !  in  Thee. 

Ah  !  then  my  soul  shoxild  know, 
Beloved  !  where  Thou  liest  at  noon  of  day ; 

And  from  this  place  of  woe 

Keleased,  should  take  its  way 
To  mingle  with  Thy  flock,  and  never  stray. 

Luis  PONCE  DE  LEON  (Spanish). 

Translation  of  W.  C.  BRYANT. 

SOJVW&T. 

'Tis  not  Thy  terrors,  Lord,  Thy  dreadful  frown, 

Which  keep  my  step  in  duty's  narrcnv  path ; 

'Tis  not  the  awful  threatenings  of  Thy  wrath, — 

But  that  in  virtue's  sacred  smile  alone 

I  find  or  peace  or  happiness.     Thy  light, 

In  all  its  prodigality,  is  shed 

Upon  the  worthy  and  the  unworthy  head  : 

And  Thou  dost  wrap  in  misery's  stormy  night 

The  holy  as  the  thankless.     All  is  well ; 

Thy  wisdom  has  to  each  his  portion  given ; 

Why  should  our  hearts  by  selfishness  be  riven  ? 

'Tis  vain  to  murmur, — daring  to  rebel : 

Lord,  I  would  fear  Thee,  though  I  feared  not  hell ; 

And  love  Thee,  though  I  had  no  hopes  of  heaven  ! 

SANTA  TERESA  DE  AVILA  (Spanish). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWRING. 


Poems  of  Religion.  375 


COME,    WAJWE'RIJYG   SHEET!    OH,    COME. 

COMB,  wandering  sheep  !  oh,  come  ! 

I'll  bind  thee  to  my  breast, 
I'll  bear  thee  to  thy  home, 

And  lay  thee  down  to  rest. 

I  saw  thee  stray  forlorn, 

And  heard  thee  faintly  cry, 
And  on  the  tree  of  scorn, 

For  thee,  I  deigned  to  die ; 

What  greater  proof  could  I 
Give,  than  to  seek  the  tomb? 
Come,  wandering  sheep  !  oh,  come ! 

I  shield  thee  from  alarms, 

And  wilt  thou  not  be  blest  1 
I  bear  thee  in  my  arms, — 

Thou  bear  me  in  thy  breast ! 

Oh,  this  is  love  ! — Come,  rest ! 
This  is  a  blissful  doom. 
Come,  wandering  sheep !  oh,  come  ! 

Lms  DE  G6NOORA  Y  ARGOTE  (Spanish). 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWBINO. 


TO-MO'R'ROW. 

LORD,  what  am  I,  that,  with  unceasing  care, 
Thou  didst  seek  after  me, — that  Thou  didst  wait, 
Wet  with  unhealthy  dews,  before  my  gate, 
And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there  ? 
0  strange  delusion,  that  I  did  not  greet 


376  Poems  of  Religion. 

Thy  blest  approach  !  and  oh,  to  heaven  how  lost, 
If  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  frost 
Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  Thy  feet ! 
How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 
"  Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,  and  thou  shalt  see 
How  He  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee ! " 
And  oh,  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 
"  To-morrow  we  will  open,"  I  replied  ! 
And  when  the  morrow  came,  I  answered  stiD, 
"  To-morrow." 

LOPE  FELIX  DE  VEOA  CARPIO  (Spanish). 

Translation  of  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


MISCELLANEOUS 
POEMS. 


HTMJV  TO 

MOST  glorious  of  the  immortal  powers  above, 
Oh  thou  of  many  names  !  mysterious  Jove  ! 
For  evermore  Almighty  !     Nature's  source  ! 
That  govern'st  all  things  in  their  order'd  course ! 
All  hail  to  thee  !  since,  innocent  of  blame, 
E'en  mortal  creatures  may  address  thy  name ; 
For  all  that  breathe,  and  creep  the  lowly  earth, 
Echo  thy  being  with  reflected  birth ; 
Thee  will  I  sing,  thy  strength  for  aye  resound : 
The  universe,  that  rolls  this  globe  around, 
Moves  whereso'er  thy  plastic  influence  guides, 
And,  ductile,  owns  the  god  whose  arm  presides. 
The  lightnings  are  thy  ministers  of  ire, 
The  double-forked  and  ever-living  fire ; 
In  thy  unconquerable  hand  they  glow, 
And  at  the  flash  all  nature  quakes  below. 
Thus,  thunder-arm'd,  thou  dost  creation  draw 
To  one  immense,  inevitable  law  : 
And  with  the  various  mass  of  breathing  souls 
Thy  power  is  mingled,  and  thy  spirit  rolls. 
Dread  genius  of  creation  !  all  things  bow 
To  thee ;  the  universal  monarch  thou ! 

32 


378  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

Nor  aught  is  done  without  thy  wise  control, 

On  earth,  or  sea,  or  round  th'  ethereal  pole, 

Save  when  the  wicked,  in  their  frenzy  blind, 

Act  o'er  the  follies  of  a  senseless  mind. 

Thou  curb'st  th'  excess ;  confusion  to  thy  sight 

Moves  regular ;  th'  unlovely  scene  is  bright. 

Thy  hand,  educing  good  from  evil,  brings 

To  one  apt  harmony,  the  strife  of  things. 

One  ever-during  law  still  binds  the  whole, 

Though  shunn'd,  resisted,  by  the  sinner's  soul. 

Wretches !  while  still  they  course  the  glittering  prize, 

The  law  of  God  eludes  their  ears  and  eyes. 

Life  then  were  virtue,  did  they  this  obey ; 

But  wide  from  life's  chief  good  they  headlong  stray. 

Now  glory's  arduous  toils  the  breast  inflame ; 

Now  avarice  thirsts,  insensible  of  shame ; 

Now  sloth  unnerves  them  in  voluptuous  ease : 

And  the  sweet  pleasures  of  the  body  please. 

With  eager  haste  they  rush  the  gulf  within, 

And  their  whole  souls  are  center'd  in  their  sin. 

But  oh,  great  Jove  !  by  whom  all  good  is  given, 

Dweller  with  lightnings  and  the  clouds  of  heaven  ! 

Save  from  their  dreadful  error  lost  mankind ! 

Father,  disperse  these  shadows  of  the  mind ! 

Give  them  thy  pure  and  righteous  law  to  know, 

Wherewith  thy  justice  governs  all  below. 

Thus  honor'd  by  the  knowledge  of  thy  way, 

Shall  men  that  honor  to  thyself  repay : 

And  bid  thy  mighty  works  in  praises  ring, 

As  well  befits  a  mortal's  hips  to  sing ; 

More  blest,  nor  men  nor  heavenly  powers  can  be, 

Than  when  their  songs  are  of  thy  law  and  thee. 

CLEANTHES  (Greek). 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  379 


HTMJV  TO 

KEEP  silence  now,  with  reverential  awe, 
Wide  aether,  and  ye  mountains,  and  ye  meads, 
With  earth,  and  sea,  and  every  breeze,  and  sound, 
And  voice  of  tuneful  bird — be  silent  all ; 
For  Phoebus,  with  his  beaming  locks  unshorn, 
Descends  among  us — on  a  stream  of  song. 

Sire  of  Aurora, — Jier  whose  eyelids  fair 
Are  of  the  braided  snow — her  rosy  car, 
Along  the  boundless  ridge  of  Heaven's  expanse, 
Drawn  by  those  winged  steeds,  thou  urgest  on — 
Exulting  in  thy  curls  of  flaming  gold. 

Thy  coronal  are  rays  of  dazzling  light 
Kevolving  much,  and  pouring  on  the  earth, 
From  their  blest  fountains,  splendors  ever  bright : 
While  of  thy  rivers  of  immortal  fire 
Day,  the  beloved,  is  born. 

For  thee,  the  choirs 

Of  tranquil  stars  perform  their  mystic  round 
O'er  heaven's  imperial  pavement ; — with  thy  lyre, 
Oh  !  Phoebus,  warbling  forth  its  ceaseless  notes — 
Delighted : — 

While  the  Moon  serenely  clear 
Borne  onward  in  her  steer-drawn  team  of  light, 
Heralds  the  changeful  seasons — and  her  heart 
With  pleasure  glows — while  clothing  daedal  earth 
With  beauteous  vestments  of  a  various  hue. 

DIONYSIUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  W.  HAT. 


380  Miscellaneous  Poems. 


COMSAT 

FROM    THE    HERVARAK   SAGA. 
ODDUR. 

HIALMAR,  what  does  thee  betide  ? 
Has  thy  color  waxed  pale  ? 
Mighty  wounds  have  wrought  thee  woe 
Sad  I  sing  the  mournful  tale. 
Furious  blows  have  cleft  thine  helm, 
On  thy  side  have  rent  thy  mail  ; 
Now  thy  life  is  nearly  spent  ; 
Sad  I  sing  the  mournful  tale. 

HIALMAR. 

Sixteen  wounds  my  body  bears, 
And  my  mail  is  rent  in  twain  ; 
Darkness  hangs  before  my  sight  ; 
111  my  limbs  their  weight  sustain. 
Angantyr's  enchanted  blade 
Stings  my  heart  with  fatal  pain  ; 
Keenly  piercing  is  the  point, 
Hard,  and  steeped  in  deadly  bane. 

Proud  domains  and  palaces 
Five  I  ruled  with  puissant  hand  ; 
Yet  I  never  could  abide 
Peaceful  in  my  native  land. 
Hopeless  now  of  light  and  life, 
Rest  I  on  a  foreign  strand, 
Here  on  Samsey's  joyless  shore, 
Wounded  by  the  piercing  brand. 

Seated  at  the  royal  board, 
Many  lords  of  high  degree 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  381 


In  the  court  of  Upsala 

Quaff  the  ale  with  mirth  and  glee ; 

Many  with  the  liquor  filled 

On  the  ground  lie  heavily  : 

Me  the  sword's  keen  wounds  afflict, 

Circled  by  the  lonely  sea. 

Youthful  beauty's  fairest  flower, 
Me  the  monarch's  daughter  led 
To  the  shore  of  Agnafit, 
Soon  a  foreign  coast  to  tread. 
True  I  find  the  fatal  words 
Which  the  parting  damsel  said : 
That  I  never  should  return 
Blithe  to  claim  her  promised  bed. 

Thence  unwilling  did  I  wend, 
Severed  from  the  festive  lay 
Which  the  lovely  women  sing 
East  of  Sota's  spacious  bay. 
In  the  swiftly  sailing  bark 
O'er  the  waves  I  took  my  way ; 
Faithful  friends  the  vessel  trimmed 
Here  we  sped  with  short  delay. 

From  my  finger  draw  the  ring, 
E'en  in  death  my  dearest  pride ; 
To  the  blooming  Ingebiorg 
Bear  it  o'er  the  billows  wide. 
In  her  bosom  fair  and  young 
Constant  sorrow  shall  abide, 
When  she  hears  I  ne'er  return 
Blithe  to  claim  my  promised  bride. 


382  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

O'er  the  rugged  desert  wild 
East  the  hungry  raven  flies ; 
And  behind  on  stronger  wing 
Swift  the  lordly  eagle  hies ; 
Soon  to  glut  his  hasty  rage 
Here  my  feeble  body  lies ; 
He  will  gorge  the  welling  blood, 
As  I  close  my  dying  eyes. 

AUTHOR  UNKNOWN  (Icelandic). 

Translation  of  W.  HERBERT. 


FISHES-SOT 


'Tis  Spring,  and  the  mists  come  stealing 

O'er  Suminciye's  shore, 
And  I  stand  by  the  sea-side  musing 

On  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

I  muse  on  the  old-world  story, 

As  the  boats  glide  to  and  fro, 
Of  the  fisher-boy  Urashima 

Who  a-fishing  loved  to  go. 

How  he  came  not  back  to  the  village 
Though  sev'n  suns  had  risen  and  set, 

But  row'd  on  past  the  bounds  of  ocean, 
And  the  sea-god's  daughter  met  ; 

How  they  pledged  their  faith  to  each  other, 
And  came  to  the  Evergreen  Land, 

And  enter'd  the  sea-god's  palace 
So  lovingly  hand  in  hand, 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  383 

To  dwell  for  aye  in  that  country, 

The  ocean-maiden  and  he, — 
The  country  where  youth  and  beauty 

Abide  eternally. 

But  the  foolish  boy  said,  "  To-morrow 

I'll  come  back  with  thee  to  dwell ; 
But  I  have  a  word  to  my  father, 

A  word  to  my  mother  to  tell." 

The  maiden  answered,  "  A  casket 

I  give  into  thine  hand ; 
And  if  that  thou  hopest  truly 

To  come  back  to  the  Evergreen  Land, 

"  Then  open  it  not,  I  charge  thee  ! 

Open  it  not,  I  beseech ! " 
So  the  boy  row'd  home  o'er  the  billows 

To  Sumino'ye's  beach. 

But  where  is  his  native  hamlet  ? 

Strange  hamlets  line  the  strand. 
Where  is  his  mother's  cottage  1 

Strange  cots  rise  on  either  hand. 

"  What,  in  three  short  years  since  I  left  it," 

He  cries  in  his  wonder  sore, 
"Has  the  home  of  my  childhood  vanished1? 

Is  the  bamboo  fence  no  more  ? 

"  Perchance,  if  I  open  the  casket 

Which  the  maiden  gave  to  me, 
My  home  and  the  dear  old  village 

Will  come  back,  as  they  used  to  be." 


384  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

And  he  lifts  the  lid,  and  there  rises 

A  fleecy  silvery  cloud, 
That  floats  off  to  the  Evergreen  Country  : 

And  the  fisher-boy  cries  aloud ; 

He  waves  the  sleeve  of  his  tunic, 

He  rolls  over  on  the  ground, 
He  dances  with  fury  and  horror, 

Running  wildly  round  and  round. 

But  a  sudden  chill  comes  o'er  him 

That  bleaches  his  raven  hair, 
And  furrows  with  hoary  wrinkles 

The  form  erst  so  young  and  fair. 

His  breath  grows  fainter  and  fainter, 
Till  at  last  he  sinks  dead  on  the  shore ; 

And  I  gaze  on  the  spot  where  his  cottage 
Once  stood,  but  now  stands  no  more. 

AUTHOR  UNKNOWN  (Japanese). 

Translation  of  BASIL  HALL  CHAMBERLAIN. 


"  OH,  where  is  the  knight  or  the  squire  so  bold, 
As  to  dive  to  the  howling  charybdis  below  1 

I  cast  in  the  whirlpool  a  goblet  of  gold, 
And  o'er  it  already  the  dark  waters  flow ; 

Whoever  to  me  may  the  goblet  bring, 

Shall  have  for  his  guerdon  that  gift  of  his  king." 

He  spoke,  and  the  cup  from  the  terrible  steep, 
That,  rugged  and  hoary,  hung  over  the  verge 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  385 

Of  the  endless  and  measureless  world  of  the  deep, 

Swirl'd  into  the  maelstrom  that  maddened  the  surge. 
"  And  where  is  the  diver  so  stout  to  go — 
I  ask  ye  again — to  the  deep  below?" 

And  the  knights  and  the  squires  that  gather'd  around 
Stood  silent,  and  fix'd  on  the  ocean  their  eyes ; 

They  looked  on  the  dismal  and  savage  Profound, 

And  the  peril  chill'd  back  every  thought  of  the  prize. 

And  thrice  spoke  the  Monarch — "  The  cup  to  win, 

Is  there  never  a  wight  who  will  venture  in?" 

And  all  as  before  heard  in  silence  the  king, 

Till  a  youth  with  an  aspect  unfearing  but  gentle, 

'Mid  the  tremulous  squires,  stept  out  from  the  ring, 
Unbuckling  his  girdle,  and  doffing  his  mantle ; 

And  the  murmuring  crowd,  as  they  parted  asunder, 

On  the  stately  boy  cast  their  looks  of  wonder. 

As  he  strode  to  the  marge  of  the  summit,  and  gave 
One  glance  on  the  gulf  of  that  merciless  main, 

Lo  !  the  wave  that  forever  devours  the  wave 
Casts  roaringly  up  the  charybdis  again  ; 

And,  as  with  the  swell  of  the  far  thunder  boom, 

Eushes  foamingly  forth  from  the  heart  of  the  gloom. 

And  it  bubbles  and  seethes,  and  it  hisses  and  roars, 
As  when  fire  is  with  water  cornmix'd  and  contending, 

And  the  spray  of  its  wrath  to  the  welkin  up-soars, 
And  flood  upon  flood  hurries  on,  never  ending ; 

And  it  never  will  rest,  nor  from  travail  be  free, 

Like  a  sea  that  is  laboring  the  birth  of  a  sea. 

33 


386  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

Yet,  at  length,  comes  a  lull  o'er  the  mighty  commotion, 
And  dark  through  the  whiteness,  and  still  through  the 

swell, 
The  whirlpool  cleaves  downward  and  downward  in  ocean 

A  yawning  abyss,  like  the  pathway  to  hell ; 
The  stiller  and  darker  the  further  it  goes, 
Suck'd  into  that  smoothness  the  breakers  repose. 

The  youth  gave  his  trust  to  his  Maker  !    Before 
That  path  through  the  riven  abyss  closed  again, 

Hark  !  a  shriek  from  the  gazers  that  circle  the  shore, — 
And  behold !  he  is  whirl'd  in  the  grasp  of  the  main  ! 

And  o'er  him  the  breakers  mysteriously  roll'd 

And  the  giant  mouth  closed  on  the  swimmer  so  bold. 

All  was  still  on  the  height,  save  the  murmur  that  went 
From  the  grave  of  the  deep,  sounding  hollow  and  fell, 

Or  save  when  the  tremulous  sighing  lament 

Thrill'd  from  lip  unto  lip,  "Gallant  youth,  fare  thee  well !" 

More  hollow  and  more  wails  the  deep  on  the  ear — 

More  dread  and  more  dread  grows  suspense  in  its  fear. 

If  thou  should'st  in  those  waters  thy  diadem  fling, 
And  cry,  "  Who  may  find  it  shall  win  it  and  Avear ;" 

God  wot,  though  the  prize  were  the  crown  of  a  king — 
A  crown  at  such  hazard  were  valued  too  dear. 

For  never  shall  lips  of  the  living  reveal 

"What  the  deeps  that  howl  yonder  in  terror  conceal. 

Oh,  many  a  bark,  to  that  breast  grappled  fast, 

Has  gone  down  to  the  fearful  and  fathomless  grave : 

Again,  crash'd  together  the  keel  and  the  mast, 
To  be  seen  tost  aloft  in  the  glee  of  the  wave  ! 

Like  the  growth  of  a  storm  ever  louder  and  clearer, 

Grows  the  roar  of  the  gulf  rising  nearer  and  nearer. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  387 

And  it  bubbles  and  seethes,  and  it  hisses  and  roars, 
As  when  fire  is  with  water  commix'd  and  contending  ; 

And  the  spray  of  its  wrath  to  the  welkin  up-soars, 
And  flood  upon  flood  hurries  on,  never  ending, 

And  as  with  the  swell  of  the  far  thunder  boom, 

Bushes  roaringly  forth  from  the  heart  of  the  gloom. 

And  lo  !  from  the  heart  of  that  far  floating  gloom, 
Like  the  wing  of  the  cygnet,  what  gleams  on  the  sea  ? 

Lo  !  an  arm  and  a  neck  glancing  up  from  the  tomb  ! 
Steering  stalwart  and  shoreward :  0  joy,  it  is  he  ! 

The  left  hand  is  lifted  in  triumph ;  behold, 

It  waves  as  a  trophy  the  goblet  of  gold  ! 

And  he  breathed  deep,  and  he  breathed  long, 
And  he  greeted  the  heavenly  delight  of  the  day. 

They  gaze  on  each  other — they  shout  as  they  throng — 
"  He  lives — lo,  the  ocean  has  render'd  its  prey  ! 

And  safe  from  the  whirlpool  and  free  from  the  grave, 

Comes  back  to  the  daylight  the  soul  of  the  brave  !" 

And  he  comes,  with  the  crowd  in  their  clamor  and  glee ; 

And  the  goblet  his  daring  has  won  from  the  water. 
He  lifts  to  the  king,  as  he  sinks  on  his  knee ; — 

And  the  king  from  her  maidens  has  beckon'd  his  daughter. 
She  pours  to  the  boy  the  bright  wine  which  they  bring, 
And  thus  spoke  the  Diver — "  Long  life  to  the  king  ! 

"  Happy  they  whom  the  rose-hues  of  daylight  rejoice, 
The  air  and  the  sky  that  to  mortals  are  given ! 

May  the  horror  below  nevermore  find  a  voice, 

Nor  man  stretch  too  far  the  wide  mercy  of  Heaven  ! " 

Nevermore,  nevermore  may  he  lift  from  the  sight 

The  veil  which  is  woven  with  Terror  and  Night ! 


388  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

"  Quick  bright'ning  like  lightening  the  ocean  msh'd  o'er  me, 
Wild  floating,  borne  down  fathom  deep  from  the  day ; 

Till  a  torrent  rush'd  out  on  the  torrents  that  bore  me 
And  doubled  the  tempest  that  whirl'd  me  away. 

Vain,  vain  was  my  struggle — the  circle  had  won  me, 

Bound  and  round  in  its  dance  the  mad  element  spun  me. 

"  From  the  deep  then  I  call'd  upon  God — and  He  heard  me, 
In  the  dread  of  my  need  He  vouchsafed  to  mine  eye 

A  rock  jutting  out  from  the  grave  that  interr'd  me  : 
I  sprung  there,  I  clung  there,  and  Death  pass'd  me  by. 

A  nd  lo  !  where  the  goblet  gleam'd  through  the  abyss, 

By  a  coral  reef  saved  from  the  far  Fathomless. 

"  Below,  at  the  foot  of  that  precipice  drear, 

Spread  the  gloomy  and  purple  and  pathless  Obscure  ! 

A  silence  of  Horror  that  slept  on  the  ear, 

That  the  eye  more  appall'd  might  the  Horror  endure ! 

Salamander,  snake,  dragon — vast  reptiles  that  dwell 

In  the  deep — coil'd  about  the  grim  jaws  of  their  hell. 

"  Dark  crawl'd,  glided  dark  the  unspeakable  swarms, 
Clump'd  together  in  masses,  misshapen  and  vast ; 

Here  clung  and  here  bristled  the  fashionless  forms ; 
Here  the  dark  moving  bulk  of  the  Hammer-fish  pass'd ; 

And  with  teeth  grinning  white,  and  a  menacing  motion, 

Went  the  terrible  Shark — the  Hyaena  of  Ocean. 

"  There  I  hung,  and  the  awe  gather 'd  icily  o'er  me, 

So  far  from  the  earth,  where  man's  help  there  was  none ! 

The  one  Human  Thing,  with  the  Goblins  before  me — 
Alone, — in  a  loneness  so  ghastly — ALONE. 

Deep  under  the  reach  of  the  sweet  living  breath, 

And  begirt  with  the  broods  of  the  desert  of  Death. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  389 

"  Methought  as  I  gazed  through  the  darkness,  that  now 
It  saw,  a  dread  hundred-limb'd  creature,  its  prey  ! 

And  darted  devouring ;  I  sprang  from  the  bough 
Of  the  coral,  and  swept  on  the  horrible  way ; 

And  the  whirl  of  the  mighty  wave  seiz'd  me  once  more, 

It  seized  me  to  save  me,  and  dash  to  the  shore." 

On  the  youth  gazed  the  Monarch,  and  marvel'd  :  quoth  he, 
"  Bold  Diver,  the  goblet  I  promised  is  thine ; 

And  this  ring  will  I  give,  a  fresh  guerdon  to  thee, — 
Never  jewels  more  precious  shone  up  from  the  mine — 

If  thou'lt  bring  me  fresh  tidings,  and  venture  again 

To  say  what  lies  hid  in  the  innermost  main." 

Then  outspake  the  daughter  in  tender  emotion — 
"  Ah  !  father,  my  father,  what  more  can  there  rest  ? 

Enough  of  this  sport  with  the  pitiless  ocean  ; 

He  has  served  thee  as  none  would,  thyself  hast  confest. 

If  nothing  can  slake  thy  wild  thirst  of  desire, 

Let  thy  knights  put  to  shame  the  exploit  of  the  squire ! " 

The  king  seized  the  goblet,  he  swung  it  on  high, 
And  whirling  it  fell  in  the  roar  of  the  tide ; 

"  But  bring  back  that  goblet  again  to  my  eye, 

And  I'll  hold  thee  the  dearest  that  rides  by  my  side, 

And  thine  arms  shall  embrace,  as  thy  bride,  I  decree, 

The  maiden  whose  pity  now  pleadcth  for  thee." 

And  Heaven,  as  he  listened,  spoke  out  from  the  space, 
And  the  hope  that  makes  heroes  shot  flame  from  his  eyes ; 

He  gazed  on  the  blush  in  that  beautiful  face  : 
It  pales  ;  at  the  feet  of  her  father  she  lies  ! 

How  priceless  the  guerdon  !  a  moment,  a  breath, 

And  headlong  he  plunges  to  life  and  to  death  ! 


390  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

They  hear  the  lond  surges  sweep  back  in  their  swell, 
Their  coming  the  thunder  sound*  heralds  along ! 

Fond  eyes  yet  are  tracking  the  spot  where  he  fell : 
They  come,  the  wild  waters,  in  tumult  and  throng, 

Roaring  up  to  the  cliff,  roaring  back  as  before, 

But  no  wave  ever  brings  the  lost  youth  to  the  shore  ! 

FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER  (German). 

Translation  of  E.  BULWER  LYTTON. 


THE  CftAJY&S  OF 

FROM  Rhegium  to  the  Isthmus,  long 
Hallow'd  to  steeds  and  glorious  song, 
Where,  link'd  awhile  in  holy  peace, 
Meet  all  the  sons  of  martial  Greece, 
"Wends  Ibycus,  whose  lips. the  sweet 

And  ever  young  Apollo  fires ; 
The  staff  supports  the  wanderer's  feet, 

The  god  the  poet's  soul  inspires ! 

Soon  from  the  mountain-ridges  high, 
The  tower-crown'd  Corinth  greets  his  eye ; 
In  Neptune's  groves  of  darksome  pine 
He  treads  with  shuddering  awe  divine ; 
Nought  lives  around  him  save  a  swarm 

Of  CRANES,  that  still  attend  his  way — 
Lured  by  the  South,  they  wheel  and  form 

In  lengthened  files  their  squadrons  gray. 

And  "  Hail,  beloved  Birds  ! "  he  cried ; 
"  My  comrades  on  the  ocean  tide. 
Sure  signs  of  good  ye  bode  to  me ; 
Alike  our  lots  would  seem  to  be ; 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  391 

From  far,  together  borne,  we  greet 
A  shelter  now  from  toil  and  danger ; 

And  may  the  friendly  hearts  we  meet 
Preserve  from  every  ill  the  stranger ! " 

His  step  more  light,  his  heart  more  gay, 
Along  the  mid- wood  winds  his  way, 
When,  where  the  path  the  thickets  close, 
Burst  sudden  forth  two  ruffian  foes ; 
Now  strife  to  strife,  and  foot  to  foot ! 

The  hand  soon  sinks  before  the  foe ; 
That  hand  so  mighty  with  the  lute, 

Alas  !  is  powerless  with  the  bow. 

He  calls  on  men  and  gods  in  vain ! 
His  cries  no  blest  deliverer  gain  : 
Feebler  and  fainter  grows  the  sound, 
And  still  the  deaf  life  slumbers  round — 
"  In  the  far  land  I  fall  forsaken, 

Unwept  and  unregarded  here ; 
By  death  from  caitiffs  hands  o'ertaken, 

Nor  e'en  one  late  avenger  near ! " 

Down  to  the  earth  the  death-stroke  bore  him '. 
Hark,  where  the  Cranes  wheel  rustling  o'er  him. 
He  hears,  as  darkness  vails  his  eyes, 
Near,  in  hoarse  croak,  their  dirge-like  cries : 
"  By  you,  wild  birds,  since  yours  alone 

The  voices  that  can  right  the  dead, 
Be  borne  the  tale  of  murder  done 

To  Heaven  !" — And  so  the  spirit  fled. 

Naked  and  maim'd  the  corpse  was  found — 
And  still,  through  many  a  mangling  wound, 


392  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

The  sad  Corinthian  host  could  trace 
The  loved,  too  well  remembered  face. 
"  And  must  I  meet  thee  thus  once  more  ? 

Who  hoped  the  singer's  brows  to  crown 
With  wreaths  of  pine — the  victory  o'er — 

And  radiant  with  a  new  renown ! " 

And  loud  lamented  every  guest 
Who  held  the  Sea  God's  solemn  feast, 
As  in  a  single  heart  prevailing, 
Throughout  all  Hellas  went  the  wailing. 
Wild  to  the  Council  Hall  they  ran — 

In  thunder  rushed  the  human  flood — 
"  Revenge  shall  right  the  murder'd  man, 

The  last  atonement — blood  for  blood  ! " 

Yet  'mid  the  throng  the  Isthmus  claims, 
Lured  by  the  Sea  God's  glorious  games — 
The  mighty  many-nation'd  throng — 
How  track  the  hand  that  wrought  the  wrong 
How  guess  if  that  dread  deed  were  done 

By  ruffian  hands  or  secret  foes  ? 
He  who  sees  all  on  earth — the  SUN — 

Alone  the  gloomy  secret  knows. 

Perchance  he  treads  in  careless  peace, 
Amidst  your  sons,  assembled  Greece — 
Hears  with  a  smile  revenge  decreed, 
Gloats  with  fell  joy  upon  the  deed — 
His  steps  the  avenging  gods  may  mock 

Within  the  very  Temple's  wall, 
Or  mingle  with  the  crowds  that  flock 

To  yonder  solemn  scenic  hall. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  393 

Wedg'd  close  and  serried,  swarms  the  crowd — 
Beneath  the  weight  the  walls  are  bow'd — 
Thitherwards  streaming  far  and  wide, 
Broad  Hellas  flows  in  mingled  tide — 
A  tide  like  that  which  heaves  the  deep 

Where  hollow-sounding  shoreward  driven ; — 
On,  wave  on  wave,  the  thousands  sweep 

Till  arching,  tier  on  tier,  to  Heaven  ! 

The  tribes,  the  nations,  who  shall  name, 
That  guest-like,  there  assembled  came  ? 
From  Theseus'  town,  from  Aulis'  strand, 
From  Phocis,  from  the  Spartans'  land, 
From  Asia's  wave-divided  clime, 

The  isles  that  gem  Ionian  seas, 
To  hearken  on  that  stage  sublime, 

The  dark  choir's  dismal  melodies  ! 

True  to  the  awful  rites  of  old, 
In  long  and  measured  strides,  behold 
The  chorus  from  the  hinder  ground 
Pace  the  vast  circle's  solemn  round. 
So  this  world's  women  never  strode, 

Their  race  from  mortal's  ne'er  began : 
Gigantic,  from  their  grim  abode, 

They  tower  above  the  sons  of  man  ! 

Across  their  loins  the  dark  robe  clinging, 
In  fleshless  hands  the  torches  swinging, 
Now  to  and  fro,  with  dark  red  glow — 
No  blood  that  lives  the  dead  cheeks  know !  • 
Where  flow  the  locks  that  woo  to  love 

On  human  temples,  ghastly  dwell 
The  serpents,  coil'd  the  brows  above, 

And  the  green  asps  with  poison  swelL 


394  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

Thus  circling,  horrible,  within 
That  space,  doth  their  dark  hymn  begin  ; 
The  hymn  that  cleaves  the  heart  in  twain, 
And  round  the  sinner  coils  the  chain ; 
The  sense  it  robb'd,the  soul  it  chill'd, 

Enduring  no  accordant  string ; 
On  through  the  very  marrow  thrill'd 

The  chant  which  choral  Furies  sing. 

"  And  weal  to  him,  from  crime  secure, 
Who  keeps  his  soul  as  childhood's  pure ; 
Life's  path  he  roves,  a  wanderer  free, 
We  near  him  not — THE  AVENGERS,  WE  ! 
But  woe  to  him  for  whom  we  weave 

The  doom  for  deeds  that  shun  the  light ; 
Fast  to  the  murderer's  feet  we  cleave, 

The  fearful  Daughters  of  the  Night. 

"  And  deems  he  flight  from  us  can  hide  him  ? 
Still  on  dark  wings  we  sail  beside  him  ! 
The  murderer's  feet  the  snare  inthralls — 
Or  soon  or  late,  to  earth  he  falls  ! 
Untiring,  bounding  on,  we  go ; 

For  blood  can  no  remorse  atone  ! 
On,  ever,  to  the  Shades  below, 

And  there  we  grasp  him,  still  our  own." 

So  singing,  their  slow  dance  they  wreathe, 
And  stillness,  like  the  hush  of  death, 
Heavily  there  lay  cold  and  drear, 
As  if  the  Godhead's  self  were  near. 
Then,  true  to  those  dread  rites  of  old, 

Pacing  the  circle's  solemn  round, 
In  long  and  measur'd  strides,  behold, 

They  vanish  in  the  hinder  ground ! 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  395 

Confused,  and  poised  in  doubt  between 
The  solemn  truth  and  mimic  scene, 
The  crowd  revere  the  Power,  presiding 
O'er  secret  deeds,  to  justice  guiding — 
The  never  fathom'd,  all  confest, 

By  whom  the  web  of  doom  is  spun ; 
That  drags  to  light  the  darkest  breast, 

Yet  flies  in  darkness  from  the  sun ! 

Just  then,  amidst  the  highest  tier, 
Breaks  forth  a  voice  that  starts  the  ear : 
"  See  there — see  there,  Timotheus ; 
Behold  the  Cranes  of  Ibycus  ! " 
A  sudden  darkness  wraps  the  sky, 

As  sailing  slow  on  solemn  wing, 
Above  that  roofless  hall,  on  high 

The  Cranes  sweep,  hoarsely  murmuring ! 

"Of  Ibycus?"  that  name  so  dear 
Ee-wakes  the  grief  in  those  who  hear ! 
Like  wave  on  wave  on  eager  seas, 
From  mouth  to  mouth  the  murmur  flees — 
"  Of  Ibycus,  whom  we  bewail  ? 

The  murdered  one  !    What  mean  those  words — 
Who  is  the  man — knows  lie  the  tale  ? 

Why  link  that  name  with  those  wild  birds?" 

Questions  on  questions  louder  press — 
Like  lightning  flies  the  inspiring  guess — 
Leaps  every  heart — "  The  Truth  we  seize ; 
Your  might  is  here,  EUMENIDES  ! 
The  murderer  yields  himself  confest — 

Vengeance  is  near — that  voice  the  token ! 
Ho  !  him  who  yonder  spoke  arrest ! 

And  him  to  whom  the  words  were  spoken  ! " 


396  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

Scarce  had  the  wretch  the  words  let  fall, 
Than  fain  their  sense  he  would  recall. 
In  vain ;  those  whitening  lips  behold  ! 
The  secret  have  already  told. 
The  judge  is  there,  the  court  array'd ; 

The  scene  becomes  the  tribunal — 
So  lightning  pierced  the  guilty  shade, 

And  with  it  fell  the  thunder  ball. 

FRIEDKICH  VON  SCHILLER  (German). 

Translation  of  E.  BULWEK  LYTTON. 


SLL&JYO&B. 

AT  break  of  day  from  frightful  dreams 

Upstarted  Ellenore : 
"  My  William,  art  thou  slayn,"  she  sayde, 

"  Or  dost  thou  love  no  more  ?" 

He  went  abroade  with  Eichard's  host 

The  paynim  foes  to  quell ; 
But  he  no  word  to  her  had  writt, 

An  he  were  sick  or  welL 

With  blore  of  trump  and  thump  of  drum 

His  fellow-  soldyers  come, 
Their  helms  bedeckt  with  oaken  boughs, 

They  seeke  their  long'd-for  home. 

And  evry  road  and  evry  lane 

Was  full  of  old  and  young, 
To  gaze  at  the  rejoycing  band, 

To  haile  with  gladsom  toung. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  397 

"  Thank  God  ! "  their  wives  and  children  sayde, 

"  Welcome  ! "  the  brides  did  saye  ; 
But  greet  or  kiss  gave  Ellenore 
To  none  upon  that  daye. 

And  when  the  soldyers  all  were  bye, 

She  tore  her  raven  hair, 
And  cast  herself  upon  the  growne, 

In  furious  despair. 

Her  mother  ran  and  lyfte  her  up, 

And  clasped  her  in  her  arm: 
"  My  child,  my  child,  what  dost  thou  ail  ? 
God  shield  thy  life  from  harm  ! " 

"  0  mother,  mother !  William's  gone  ! 

What's  all  besyde  to  me  1 
There  is  no  mercie,  sure,  above ! 
All,  all  were  spar'd  but  he  !" 

"  Kneele  downe,  thy  paternoster  saye, 
'Twill  calm  thy  troubled  spright : 
The  Lord  is  wise,  the  Lord  is  good ; 
What  he  hath  done  is  right." 

"  0  mother,  mother  !  saye  not  so ; 

Most  cruel  is  my  fate  : 
I  prayde,  and  prayde ;  but  watte  avaylde  ? 
'Tis  now,  alas  !  too  late." 

Our  Heavenly  Father,  if  we  praye, 

Will  help  a  suffring  child : 
Go,  take  the  holy  sacrament ; 

So  shal  thy  grief  grow  mild." 


398  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

"  0  mother,  what  I  feele  within 

No  sacrament  can  staye  • 
No  sacrament  can  teche  the  dead 
To  bear  the  sight  of  daye." 

"  May-be,  among  the  heathen  folk 
Thy  William  false  doth  prove, 
And  put  away  his  faith  and  troth, 
And  take  another  love. 

"  Then  wherefor  sorrowe  for  his  loss  ? 

Thy  moans  are  all  in  vain : 
But  when  his  soul  and  body  parte, 
His  falsehode  brings  him  pain." 

"  0  mother,  mother  !  gone  is  gone  : 

My  hope  is  all  forlorn ; 
The  grave  my  only  safeguard  is : 
Oh,  had  I  ne'er  been  born ! 

"  Go  out,  go  out,  my  lamp  of  life, 

In  grizely  darkness  die  ! 
There  is  no  mercie,  sure,  above  ! 

For  ever  let  me  lie ! " 

"  Almighty  God  !  oh,  do  not  judge 

My  poor  unhappy  child  ! 
She  knows  not  what  her  lips  pronounce, 
Her  anguish  makes  her  wild. 

"  My  girl,  forget  thine  earthly  woe, 

And  think  on  God  and  bliss ; 
For  so,  at  least,  shal  not  thy  soul 
Its  heavenly  bridegroom  miss." 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  399 

"  0  mother,  mother !  what  is  bliss, 

And  what  the  fiendis  cell  ? 

With  him  'tis  heaven  anywhere ; 

Without  my  William,  hell. 

"  Go  out,  go  out,  my  lamp  of  life, 

In  endless  darkness  die  ! 
Without  him  I  must  loathe  the  earth, 
Without  him  scorne  the  skie." 

And  so  despair  did  rave  and  rage 

Athwarte  her  boiling  veins ; 
Against  the  providence  of  God 

She  hurlde  her  impious  strains. 

She  beat  her  breast,  and  wrung  her  hands, 

And  rollde  her  tearless  eye, 
From  rise  of  morn,  til  the  pale  stars 

Again  orespred  the  skye. 

When,  harke  !  abroade  she  herde  the  tramp 

Of  nimble-hoofed  steed ; 
She  herde  a  knight  with  clank  alighte, 

And  climbe  the  stair  in  speed. 

And  soon  she  herde  a  tinkling  hand, 

That  twirled  at  the  pin  ; 
And  thro  her  door,  that  opend  not, 

These  words  were  breathed  in  : — 

"  What  ho !  what  ho  !  thy  door  undo : 

Art  watching  or  asleepe  ? 
My  love,  dost  yet  remember  me  1 

And  dost  thou  laugh  or  weepe?" 


400  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

"  Ah,  William,  here  so  late  at  night  ? 

Oh,  I  have  wachte  and  wak'd ! 
Whence  art  thou  come  ?    For  thy  return 
My  heart  has  sorely  ak'd." 

"  At  midnight  only  we  may  ride ; 

I  come  ore  land  and  see  : 
I  mounted  late,  hut  soone  I  go ; 
Aryse,  and  come  with  mee." 

"  0  William,  enter  first  my  howre, 

And  give  me  one  embrace  : 
The  blasts  athwarte  the  hawthorn  hiss, 
Awayte  a  little  space." 

"  Tho  blasts  athwarte  the  hawthorn  hiss, 

I  may  not  harbour  here  ; 
My  spurs  are  sett,  my  courser  pawes, 
My  hour  of  flight  is  nere. 

"  All  as  thou  lyest  upon  thy  couch, 

Aryse,  and  mount  behinde ; 
To-night  we'le  ride  a  thousand  miles, 
The  bridal  bed  to  finde." 

"How?  ride  to-night  a  thousand  miles? 

Thy  love  thou  dost  bemock  : 
Eleven  is  the  stroke  that  still 
Eings  on  within  the  clock." 

"  Looke  up ;  the  moon  is  brighte,  and  we 

Outstride  the  earthly  men  : 
1'le  take  thee  to  the  bridal  bed, 
And  night  shal  end  but  then." 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  401 

"  And  where  is,  then,  thy  house,  and  home, 

And  bridal  bed  so  meet?" 
"  'Tis  narrow,  silent,  chilly,  low, 

Six  planks,  one  shrouding  sheet." 

"  And  is  there  any  room  for  me, 

Wherein  that  I  may  creepe?" 
"  There's  room  enough  for  thee  and  me, 

Wherein  that  we  may  sleepe. 

"  All  as  thou  lyest  upon  thy  couch, 

Aryse,  no  longer  stop ; 
The  wedding-guests  thy  coming  wayte, 
The  chamber-door  is  ope." 

All  in  her  sarke,  as  there  she  lay, 

Upon  his  horse  she  sprung ; 
And  with  her  lily  hands  so  pale 

About  her  William  clung. 

And  hurry-skurry  off  they  go, 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry ; 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow, 

And  sparkling  pebbles  fly. 

How  swift  the  flood,  the  mead,  the  wood, 

Aright,  aleft,  are  gone  ! 
The  bridges  thunder  as  they  pass, 

But  earthly  sowne  is  none. 

Tramp,  tramp,  across  the  land  they  speede ; 

Splash,  splash,  across  the  see : 
"  Hurrah  !  the  dead  can  ride  apace ; 

Dost  feare  to  ride  with  mee  ? 
34 


402  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

"  The  moon  is  bright,  and  blue  the  night ; 

Dost  quake  the  blast  to  stem  ? 
Dost  shudder,  mayd,  to  seeke  the  dead?" 
"  No,  no,  but  what  of  them  ?" 

How  glumly  sownes  yon  dirgy  song ! 

Night-ravens  flappe  the  wing : 
What  knell  doth  slowly  tolle  ding  dong? 

The  psalms  of  death  who  sing? 

Forth  creeps  a  swarthy  funeral  train, 

A  corse  is  on  the  biere ; 
Like  croke  of  todes  from  lonely  moores, 

The  chauntings  meete  the  eere. 

"  Go,  beare  her  corse,  when  midnight's  past, 

With  song,  and  tear,  and  wail ; 
I've  gott  my  wife,  I  take  her  home, 
My  hour  of  wedlock  hail ! 

"  Leade  forth,  O  dark,  the  chaunting  quire, 

To  swelle  our  spousal-song  : 
Come,  preest,  and  reade  the  blessing  soone 
For  our  dark  bed  we  long." 

The  bier  is  gon,  the  dirges  hush ; 

His  bidding  all  obaye, 
And  headlong  rush  thro  briar  and  bush, 

Beside  his  speedy  waye. 

Halloo  !  halloo  !  how  swift  they  go, 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry  ! 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow, 

And  sparkling  pebbles  fly. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  403 

How  swift  the  hill,  how  swift  the  dale, 

Aright,  aleft,  are  gon  ! 
By  hedge  and  tree,  by  thorp  and  town, 

They  gallop,  gallop  on. 

Tramp,  tramp,  across  the  land  they  speede ; 

Splash,  splash,  across  the  see : 
"  Hurrah  !  the  dead  can  ride  apace ; 

Dost  feare  to  ride  with  mee? 

"  Look  up,  look  up  !  an  airy  crew 

In  roundel  daunces  reele  : 
The  moon  is  bright,  and  blue  the  night, 
Mayst  dimly  see  them  wheele. 

"  Come  to,  come  to,  ye  ghostly  crew 

Come  to,  and  follow  me, 
And  daunce  for  us  the  wedding  daunce, 
When  we  in  bed  shal  be." 

And  brush,  brush,  brush,  the  ghostly  crew 

Came  wheeling  ore  their  heads, 
All  rustling  like  the  withered  leaves 

That  wild  the  whirlwind  spreads. 

Halloo  !  halloo  !  away  they  go, 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry ; 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow, 

And  sparkling  pebbles  fly. 

And  all  that  in  the  moonshyne  lay 

Behind  them  fled  afar ; 
And  backward  scudded  over  head 

The  skie  and  every  star. 


404  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

Tramp,  tramp,  across  the  land  they  speede ; 

Splash,  splash,  across  the  see  : 
"  Hurrah  !  the  dead  can  ride  apace ; 

Dost  feare  to  ride  with  mee  ? 

"I  weene  the  cock  prepares  to  crowe; 

The  sand  will  soone  be  run  : 
I  snuffe  the  early  morning  air ; 

Downe,  downe  !  our  work  is  done. 

"  The  dead,  the  dead  can  ride  apace : 

Our  wed-bed  here  is  fit : 
Our  race  is  ridde,  our  journey  ore, 

Our  endless  union  knit." 

And,  lo  !  an  yron-grated  gate 

Soon  biggens  to  their  view : 
He  crackde  his  whyppe ;  the  locks,  the  bolts, 

Cling,  clang  !  asunder  flew. 

They  passe,  and  'twas  on  graves  they  trodde : 

"  'Tis  hither  we  are  bound  " : 
And  many  a  tombstone  ghastly  white 

Lay  in  the  moonshyne  round. 

And  when  he  from  his  steed  alytte, 

His  armure,  black  as  cinder, 
Did  moulder,  moulder  all  awaye, 

As  were  it  made  of  tinder. 

His  head  became  a  naked  skull ; 

Nor  hair  nor  eyne  had  he  : 
His  body  grew  a  skeleton, 

Whilome  so  blithe  of  ble. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  405 

And  at  his  dry  and  boney  heel 

No  spur  was  left  to  bee  : 
And  in  his  withered  hand  you  might 

The  scythe  and  hour-glass  see. 

And,  lo !  his  steed  did  thin  to  smoke, 

And  charnel-fires  outbreathe ; 
And  pal'd,  and  bleachde,  then  vanishde  quite 

The  mayd  from  underneathe. 

And  hollow  bowlings  hung  in  air, 

And  shrekes  from  vaults  arose : 
Then  knewe  the  mayd  she  might  no  more 

Her  living  eyes  unclose. 

But  onward  to  the  judgment-seat, 

Thro  mist  and  moonlight  dreare, 
The  ghostly  crew  their  flight  persewe, 

And  hollowe  in  her  eare  : 

"  Be  patient ;  tho  thyne  herte  should  breke, 

Arrayne  not  Heaven's  decree  : 
Thou  nowe  art  of  thy  bodie  reft, 
Thy  soul  forgiven  bee  ! " 

GOTTFRIED  AUGUST  BURGER  (German). 

Translation  of  W.  TAYLOR. 


THE  MIJfSTft&L'S  CWRSE. 

PROUDLY  and  high  a  castle  stood,  in  the  warlike  times  of  old, 
Far  looked  it  over  the  land  and  sea,  so  noble  and  so  bold, 
From  blooming  gardens  round  it  a  flowery  wreath  was  flung, 
And  from  gurgling  wells  and  fountains  the  cooling  waters 
sprung. 


406  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

A  king  lived  there  so  haughty,  rich  both  by  wars  and  land, 
Grimly  he  sat  upon  his  throne,  and  ruled  with  iron  hand ; 
For  what  he  thinks  is  terrible,  his  looks  have  nought  of 

good, 
And  what  he  speaks  is  scourging,  and  what  he  writes  is 

blood. 

Once  to  this  castle  two  minstrels  came,  they  were  a  noble 

pair, 

The  one  in  flowing  golden  locks,  the  other  gray  of  hair  ; 
The  old  one  with  the  harp  he  loved  on  a  dappled  steed 

did  ride, 
And  quickly  and  fresh  the  blooming  youth  did  run  along 

beside. 

Then  to  the  youth  the  old  one  said,  "  Art  ready,  son  of 

mine  ? 
Remember  our  most  moving  lays,  with  that  full  voice  of 

thine 

Use  all  thy  powers  of  glorious  song ;  so  let  our  music  ring, 
That  it  to-day  will  surely  touch  the  stony-hearted  king." 

Now  in  a  richly-columned  hall  the  singers  are  side  and  side, 
Upon  his  throne  the  proud  king  sits,  and  by  him  sits  his 

bride, 

The  king  in  fearful  majesty,  like  the  bloody  northern  light, 
The  queen  as  sAveet  and  lovely  as  the  moon  is  mild  and 

bright. 

The  old  man  struck  his  harp-strings ;  he  played  so  won- 
drous clear, 

That  richly  and  more  rich  the  tones  rose  to  the  listening  ear, 

Then  with  a  heavenly  sweetness  the  youth's  full  voice 
chimed  in, 

And  like  a  holy  spirit-choir  the  old  one  sang  between. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  407 

Of  knightly  deeds  and  love  they  sang,  of  truth  and  holiness, 
Of  freedom  and  of  manly  faith,  of  a  time  that  all  will  bless, 
They  sang  of  all  that's  great  and  good  to  move  the  human 

heart, 
Of  all  that  raises  to  high  deeds  and  in  the  right  takes  part. 

The  scorning  courtier  circle  forget  here  sport  to  see, 

The  proud  grim  warriors  of  the  king,  to  God  they  bend  the 

knee, 

The  queen  in  sweetest  sympathy  is  melted  with  the  rest, 
To  the  singers  she  throws  the  bright  red  rose  that's  bloom- 
ing on  her  breast. 

"  You  have  seduced  my  people,  would  you  charm  away  my 

bride?" 

The  king  with  rage  all  trembling,  in  dreadful  anger  cried. 
Quickly  he  throws  his  dagger,  through  the  youth's  white 

breast  it  goes, 
Instead  of  the  golden  songs  therefrom,  the  purple  life-blood 

flows. 

Now  thunder-struck  the  listeners  stood  and  all  are  still  as 
death, 

The  minstrel  in  his  master's  arms  has  breathed  his  latest 
breath, 

Gently  the  master  folds  his  cloak  around  him  for  a  shroud, 

Upon  the  horse  he  binds  the  corse  and  leaves  the  wonder- 
ing crowd. 

But  before  the  noble  entrance  the  singer  makes  a  stand, 
Fiercely  his  harp  he  dashes  (the  best  harp  in  the  land) 
Against  a  marble  column ;  its  shattered  pieces  fly, 
And  then  through  hall  and  garden  is  heard  his  frightful 
cry: 


408  Miscellaneous  Poems, 

"  Woe  to  you,  proud  and  lofty  halls,  no  music  sweet  and 

long 
Shall  e'er  be  heard  within  your  walls,  no  sounding  harp  nor 

song, 

But  only  sighs  and  groanings  and  coward  slavery's  tread, 
Until  to  dust  and  ashes  you  are  numbered  with  the  dead. 

"  Woe  to  you,  fragrant   gardens  in  the  beauty  bloom  of 

May, 

To  you  I  show  this  dead  pale  face,  here  in  the  light  of  day, 
That  at  its  sight  ye  wither  fast ;  let  every  fount  be  dry, 
As  stony  fields  and  barren  lands  in  future  ye  shall  lie. 

"  And  thou  damned,  hated  murderer,  thou  blasting  curse  of 

song, 

No  more  to  thee  shall  the  bloody  wreath  of  victory  belong, 
In  eternal  night  be  buried,  let  thy  name  forever  die, 
Like  a  sigh  upon  the  empty  air,  thy  boasted  fame  shall  fly." 

Thus  spoke  the  aged  minstrel,  and  Heaven  hath  heard  his 

call, 

Deep  in  the  dust  low  lying  you  may  see  the  castle  wall, 
One  column  alone  is  standing  to  speak  of  the  splendor 


And  that,  already  crackling,  will  fall  in  a  nightly  blast. 

And  instead  of  blooming  gardens,  there's  a  scorched  and 

dreary  land, 
No  trees  are   spreading   cooling   shades,  no   springs  well 

through  the  sand, 
No  name  hath  the  king  in  hero-book,  nor  yet  in  sounding 

verse, 
Forsaken  and  forgotten — that  is  the  minstrel's  curse. 

JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND  (German). 

Translation  of  WILLIAM  HUNT. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  409 


WHO  rideth  so  late  through  the  night-wind  wild  ? 

It  is  the  father  with  his  child ; 

He  has  the  little  one  well  in  his  arm ; 

He  holds  him  safe,  and  he  folds  him  warm. 

My  son,  why  hidest  thy  face  so  shy  ? — 
Seest  thou  not,  father,  the  Erl-king  nigh  ? 
The  Erlen  king,  with  train  and  crown  1 — 
It  is  a  wreath  of  mist,  my  son. 

"  Come,  lovely  boy,  come,  go  with  me ; 

Such  merry  plays  I  will  play  with  thee ; 

Many  a  bright  flower  grows  on  the  strand, 

And  my  mother  has  many  a  gay  garment  at  hand." 

My  father,  my  father,  dost  thou  not  hear 
What  the  Erl-king  whispers  low  in  my  ear  ? — 
Be  quiet,  my  darling,  be  quiet,  my  child ; 
Through  withered  leaves  the  wind  howls  wild. 

" Come,  lovely  boy,  wilt  thou  go  with  me? 

My  daughters  fair  shall  wait  on  thee ; 

My  daughters  their  nightly  revels  keep ; 

They'll  sing, and  they'll  dance, and  they'll  rock  thee  to  sleep." 

My  father,  my  father,  and  seeet  thou  not 
The  Erl-king's  daughters  in  yon  dim  spot  ? 
My  son,  my  son,  I  see  and  I  know 
'Tis  the  old  gray  willow  that  shimmers  so. 

"  I  love  thee  ;  thy  beauty  has  ravished  my  sense, 
And,  willing  or  not,  I  will  carry  thee  hence." 
0  father,  the  Erl-king  now  puts  forth  his  arm  ! 
0  father,  the  Erl-king  has  done  me  harm  ! 
35 


410  Miscellaneous  Poems. 


The  father  shudders  ;  he  hurries  on  ; 
And  faster  he  holds  his  moaning  son ; 
He  reaches  his  home  with  fear  and  dread, 
And  lo !  in  his  arms  the  child  was  dead. 

JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE  (German). 

Translation  of  F.  H.  HEDGE. 


I  KNOW  not  what  it  foretelleth, 

I  am  so  sad  at  heart, 
My  mind  on  a  legend  dwelleth, 

That  comes  and  will  not  depart. 

The  air  is  cool  in  the  twilight, 

And  the  Rhine  flows  smoothly  on, 

The  peaks  of  the  mountains  sparkle 
In  the  glow  of  the  evening  sun. 

High  on  yon  rock  reclineth 

A  maiden  strangely  fair ; 
Her  golden  apparel  shineth, 

She  combs  her  golden  hair. 

With  a  golden  comb  she  combs  it, 
A  song  the  while  sings  she, 

All  weird  and  wondrous  is  it, 
And  mighty  the  melody. 

The  boatman,  as  it  comes  o'er  him, 
It  seizes  with  fierce  delight, 

He  sees  not  the  rocks  before  him, 
His  gaze  is  fixed  on  the  height. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  411 

I  believe  in  the  end  that  the  billows 

O'er  boatman  and  boat  roll  high ; 
And  this  with  her  fearful  singing 

Was  done  by  the  Lorelei. 

HEINRICH  HEINE  (German). 

Translation  of  W.  H.  FURNESS. 


WA'R-SOJYG. 

WE  met,  a  hundred  of  us  met, 

At  curfew,  in  the  field ; 
We  talked  of  Heaven  and  Jesus  Christ, 

And  all  devoutly  kneeled : 

When  lo !  we  saw,  all  of  us  saw, 

The  star-lit  sky  unclose, 
And  heard  the  far-high  thunders  roll 

Like  seas  where  storm-wind  blowa 

We  listened,  in  amazement  lost, 

As  still  as  stones  for  dread, 
And  heard  the  war  proclaimed  above, 

And  sins  of  nations  read. 

The  sound  was  like  a  solemn  psalm 

That  holy  Christians  sing ; 
And  by-and-by  the  noise  was  ceased 

Of  all  the  angelic  ring : 

Yet  still,  beyond  the  cloven  sky, 

We  saw  the  sheet  of  fire ; 
There  came  a  voice,  as  from  a  throne, 

To  all  the  heavenly  choir, 


412  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

Which  spake  :  "  Though  many  men  must  fall, 

I  will  that  these  prevail ; 
To  me  the  poor  man's  cause  is  dear." 

Then  slowly  sank  a  scale. 

The  hand  that  poised  was  lost  in  clouds, 

One  shell  did  weighty  seem  : 
But  sceptres,  scutcheons,  mitres,  gold 

Flew  up,  and  kicked  the  beam. 

J.  W.  L.  GLEIM  (German). 

Translation  of  W.  TAYLOR. 


THE  MIDNIGHT 

FROM  his  grave  the  Drummer  rises 
At  the  twelfth  hour  of  night, 
And  goes  his  rounds  with  his  drumming, 
Marching  to  left  and  right. 

With  his  fleshless  arms  he  rattles 
His  drum-sticks  good  and  true, 
Beats  many  an  old  tune  loudly, 
Reveille  and  tattoo. 

The  music  rolls  so  strangely 
And  with  such  ringing  staves, 
That  the  old  dead  infantry  startle, 
And  waken  in  their  graves. 

Those  who  lie  in  the  Northland, 
Stiff  frozen  in  ice  and  snow, 
Those  who  were  slain  in  Italy, 
Under  the  sun's  hot  glow, 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  413 


Those  whom  the  Nile  slime  covers, 
Those  under  Arab  sands, 
Out  from  their  graves  they  clamber, 
With  their  muskets  in  their  hands. 

From  his  grave  the  Trumpeter  rises 
At  the  twelfth  hour  of  night, 
The  assembly  he  plays  on  his  bugle, 
Turning  to  left  and  right. 

Then  mounted  on  ghostly  horses, 
Dead  troopers  come  in  swarms, 
And  form  the  old  famous  squadrons, 
Carrying  their  varied  arms. 

On  white  skulls  grinning  ghastly, 
They  wear  their  helmets  bright, 
Their  bony  hands  are  holding 
The  trusty  swords  upright. 

From  his  grave  the  General  rises 
At  the  twelfth  hour  of  night, 
Slowly  he  rideth  onward 
With  his  staff  at  left  and  right. 

On  his  head  there's  a  little  hat, 
A  dagger  he  wears  at  his  side, 
With  his  old  gray  coat  about  him 
He  taketh  his  spectre  ride. 

The  yellow  light  of  the  moon 
Widely  brightens  the  plain, 
And  the  man  with  the  little  hat 
Looks  on  his  troops  again. 


414  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

The  columns  present,  then  shoulder, 
And  at  the  commander's  cry, 
With  noisy  kling-klang  marching, 
The  ghastly  host  goes  by. 

The  staff  form  a  ring  about  him, 
With  marshals  and  generals  near, 
The  Captain  turns  to  his  neighbor, 
And  whispers  a  word  in  his  ear. 

The  word  is  taken  up  quickly, 
Resounding  now  and  again, 
Soldiers  !  "  France  "  is  the  watchword, 
And  the  counter-sign,  "  Sainte  Helens." 

This  is  the  parade  of  heroes 
Whom  the  great  Emperor  knew, 
When  in  the  fields  Elysian 
He  held  his  midnight  review. 

JOSEPH  CHRISTIAN  VON  ZEDLITZ  (German). 

Translation  of  WILLIAM  HUNT. 


"  SWORD  at  my  left  side  gleaming  ! 
Why  is  thy  keen  glance  beaming, 
So  fondly  bent  on  mine  ? 
I  love  that  smile  of  thine  ! 

Hurrah!" 

"  Borne  by  a  trooper  daring, 
My  looks  his  fire-glance  wearing, 
I  arm  a  freeman's  hand  : 
This  well  delights  thy  brand  ! 
Hurrah ! 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  415 

"  Ay,  good  sword  !    Free  I  wear  thee ; 
And,  true  heart's  love,  I  bear  thee, 
Betrothed  one,  at  my  side, 
As  my  dear,  chosen  bride  ! 

Hurrah !" 

"  To  thee  till  death  united, 
Thy  steel's  bright  life  is  plighted ; 
Ah,  were  my  love  but  tried ! 
When  wilt  thou  wed  thy  bride  1 

Hurrah!" 

"  The  trumpet's  festal  warning 
Shall  hail  our  bridal  morning ; 
When  loud  the  cannon  chide, 
Then  clasp  I  my  loved  bride  ! 

Hurrah !" 

"  Oh,  joy,  when  thine  arms  hold  me  ! 
I  pine  until  they  fold  me. 

Come  to  me  !  bridegroom,  come  ! 
Thine  is  my  maiden  bloom. 

Hurrah !" 

"  Why,  in  thy  sheath  upspringing, 
Thou  wild,  dear  steel,  art  ringing? 
Why  clanging  with  delight, 
So  eager  for  the  fight  ? 

Hurrah!" 

"  Well  may  thy  scabbard  rattle, 
Trooper,  I  pant  for  battle ; 
Right  eager  for  the  fight, 
I  clang  with  wild  delight. 

Hurrah!" 


416  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

"  Why  thus,  my  love,  forth  creeping  ? 
Stay,  in  thy  chamber  sleeping ; 
Wait,  still,  i'  th'  narrow  room ; 
Soon  for  my  bride  I  come. 

Hurrah!" 

"  Keep  me  not  longer  pining  ! 
Oh,  for  Love's  garden,  shining 
With  roses  bleeding  red, 
And  blooming  with  the  dead  ! 

Hurrah!" 

"  Come  from  thy  sheath,  then,  treasure  ! 
Thou  trooper's  true  eye-pleasure ! 
Come  forth,  my  good  sword,  come ! 
Enter  thy  father-home  ! 

Hurrah!" 

"  Ha  !  in  the  free  air  glancing, 
How  brave  this  bridal  dancing  ! 
How,  in  the  sun's  glad  beams, 
Bride-like  thy  bright  steel  gleams  ! 

Hurrah !" 

Come  on,  ye  German  horsemen  ! 
Come  on,  ye  valiant  Norsemen  ! 

Swells  not  your  hearts'  warm  tide  ? 

Clasp  each  in  hand  his  bride  ! 

Hurrah ! 

Once  at  your  left  side  sleeping, 
Scarce  her  veiled  glance  forth  peeping ; 
Now,  wedded  with  your  right, 
God  plights  your  bride  i'  th'  light. 
Hurrah ! 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  417 

Then  press,  with  warm  caresses, 
Close  lips,  and  bridal  kisses, 

Your  steel ; — cursed  be  his  head, 

Who  fails  the  bride  he  wed  ! 

Hurrah ! 

Now,  till  your  swords  flash,  flinging 
Clear  sparks  forth,  wave  them  singing ; 

Day  dawns  for  bridal  pride ; 

Hurrah,  thou  Iron-bride ! 

Hurrah ! 

KARL  THEODOR  KORNER  (German). 

Translation  of  W.  B.  CHORLEY. 


THE 

IT  stands  in  the  lonely  Winterthal, 

At  the  base  of  Ilsberg  hill ; 
It  stands  as  though  it  fain  would  fall, 

The  dark  deserted  mill. 
Its  engines,  coated  with  moss  and  mould, 

Bide  silent  all  the  day ; 
Its  mildewed  Avails  and  windows  old 

Are  crumbling  into  decay. 

So  through  the  daylight's  lingering  hours 

It  mourns  in  weary  rest ; 
But,  soon  as  the  sunset's  gorgeous  bowers 

Begin  to  fade  in  the  west, 
The  long-dead  millers  leave  their  lairs, 

And  open  its  creaking  doors, 
And  their  feet  glide  up  and  down  its  stairs, 

And  over  its  dusty  floors. 


418  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

And  the  millers'  men,  they  too  awake, 

And  the  night's  weird  work  begins : 
The  wheels  turn  round,  the  hoppers  shake, 

The  flour  falls  into  the  bins. 
The  mill-bell  tolls  agen  and  agen, 

And  the  cry  is,  "  Grist  here,  ho  ! " 
And  the  dead  old  millers  and  their  men 

Move  busily  to  and  fro. 

And  ever  as  the  night  wears  more  and  more 

New  groups  throng  into  the  mill, 
And  the  clangor,  deafening  enough  before, 

Grows  louder  and  wilder  still. 
Huge  sacks  are  barrowed  from  floor  to  floor; 

The  wheels  redouble  their  din ; 
The  hoppers  clatter,  the  engines  roar ; 

And  the  flour  o'erflows  the  bin. 

But  with  the  morning's  pearly  sheen 

This  ghastly  hubbub  wanes ; 
And  the  moon-dim  face  of  a  woman  is  seen 

Through  the  meal-dulled  window-panes. 
She  opens  the  sash,  and  her  words  resound 

In  tones  of  unearthly  power, — 
"  Come  hither,  good  folks,  the  corn  is  ground ; 

Come  hither,  and  take  your  flour ! " 

Thereon  strange  hazy  lights  appear 

A-flitting  all  through  the  pile, 
And  a  deep,  melodious,  choral  cheer 

Ascends  through  the  roof  the  while. 
But,  a  moment  more,  and  you  gaze  and  hark 

And  wonder  and  wait  in  vain ; 
For  suddenly  all  again  is  dark, 

And  all  is  hushed  again. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  419 

It  stands  in  the  desolate  Winterthal, 

At  the  base  of  Ilsberg  hill ; 
It  stands  as  though  it  would  rather  fall, 

The  long-deserted  mill. 
Its  engines,  coated  with  moss  and  mould, 

Bide  silent  all  the  day ; 
And  its  mildewed  walls  and  windows  old 

Are  crumbling  fast  away. 

AUGUST  SCHNEZLER  (German). 

Translation  of  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 

THE  2)JIJYJVS. 

TOWN,  tower, 
Shore,  deep, 
Where  lower 
Cliffs  steep ; 
Waves  gray, 
Where  play 
Winds  gay, — 
All  sleep. 

Hark !  a  sound, 
Far  and  slight, 
Breathes  around 
On  the  night : 
High  and  higher, 
Nigh  and  nigher, 
Like  a  fire 
Roaring  bright. 

Now  on  'tis  sweeping 
With  rattling  beat, 
Like  dwarf  imp  leaping 
In  gallop  fleet : 


420  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

He  flies,  he  prances, 
In  frolic  fancies, 
On  wave-crest  dances 
"With  pattering  feet. 

Hark,  the  rising  swell, 
With  each  nearer  burst ! 
Like  the  toll  of  bell 
Of  a  convent  cursed ; 
Like  the  billowy  roar 
On  a  storm-lashed  shore, — 
Now  hushed,  now  once  more 
Maddening  to  its  worst. 

0  God  !  the  deadly  sound 
Of  the  Djinns'  fearful  cry  ! 
Quick,  'neath  the  spiral  round 
Of  the  deep  staircase  fly  ! 
See,  see  our  lamplight  fade  ! 
And  of  the  balustrade 
Mounts,  mounts  the  circling  shade 
Up  to  the  ceiling  high  ! 

Tis  the  Djinns'  wild  streaming  swarm 
Whistling  in  their  tempest-flight ; 
Snap  the  tall  yews  'neath  the  storm, 
Like  a  pine-flame  crackling  bright. 
Swift  and  heavy,  lo,  their  crowd 
Through  the  heavens  rushing  loud, 
Like  a  vivid  thunder-cloud 
With  its  bolt  of  fiery  night ! 

Ha  !  they  are  on  us,  close  without ! 
Shut  tight  the  shelter  where  we  lie  ! 
With  hideous  din  the  monster  rout, 
Dragon  and  vampire,  fill  the  sky  ! 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  421 

The  loosened  rafter  overhead 
Trembles  and  bends  like  quivering  reed ; 
Shakes  the  old  door  with  shuddering  dread, 
As  from  its  rusty  hinge  'twotild  fly  ! 

Wild  cries  of  hell !  voices  that  howl  and  shriek  ! 
The  horrid  swarm  before  the  tempest  tossed — 
O  Heaven  ! — descends  my  lowly  roof  to  seek  : 
Bends  the  strong  wall  beneath  the  furious  host. 
Totters  the  house,  as  though,  like  dry  leaf  shorn 
From  autumn  bough  and  on  the  mad  blast  borne, 
Up  from  its  deep  foundations  it  were  torn 
To  join  the  stormy  whirl.     Ah  !  all  is  lost ! 

0  Prophet !  if  thy  hand  but  now 

Save  from  these  foul  and  hellish  things, 

A  pilgrim  at  thy  shrine  I'll  bow, 

Laden  with  pious  offerings. 

Bid  their  hot  breath  its  fiery  rain 

Stream  on  my  faithful  door  in  vain, 

Vainly  upon  my  blackened  pane 

Grate  the  fierce  claws  of  their  dark  wings ! 

They  have  passed  ! — and  their  wild  legion 
Cease  to  thunder  at  my  door ; 
Fleeting  through  night's  rayless  region, 
Hither  they  return  no  more. 
Clanking  chains  and  sounds  of  woe 
Fill  the  forests  as  they  go ; 
And  the  tall  oaks  cower  low, 
Bent  their  flaming  flight  before. 

On  !  on  !  the  storm  of  wings 
Bears  far  the  fiery  fear, 
Till  scarce  the  breeze  now  brings 
Dim  murmurings  to  the  ear ; 


422  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

Like  locusts'  humming  hail, 
Or  thrash  of  tiny  flail 
Plied  by  the  pattering  hail 
On  some  old  roof-tree  near. 

Fainter  now  are  borne 
Fitful  mutterings  still ; 
As,  when  Arab  horn 
Swells  its  magic  peal, 
Shoreward  o'er  the  deep 
Fairy  voices  sweep, 
And  the  infant's  sleep 
Golden  visions  fill. 

Each  deadly  Djinn, 
Dark  child  of  fright, 
Of  death  and  sin, 
Speeds  the  wild  flight. 
Hark,  the  dull  moan, 
Like  the  deep  tone 
Of  ocean's  groan, 
Afar,  by  night ! 

More  and  more 
Fades  it  now, 
As  on  shore 
Ripples  flow, — 
As  the  plaint 
Far  and  faint 
Of  a  saint 
Murmured  low. 

Hark!  hist! 
Around, 
I  list! 
The  bounds 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  423 

Of  space 
All  trace 
Efface 
Of  sound. 

VICTOR  HUGO  (French). 

Translation  of  JOHN  L.  O'SuLLiVAN. 


OBSERVE,  when  mother  Earth  is  dry, 
She  drinks  the  droppings  of  the  sky  ; 
And  then  the  dewy  cordial  gives 
To  every  thirsty  plant  that  lives. 
The  vapors,  which  at  evening  sweep, 
Are  beverage  to  the  swelling  deep  : 
And  while  the  rosy  sun  appears 
He  drinks  the  ocean's  misty  tears. 
The  Moon,  too,  quaffs  her  paly  stream 
Of  lustre  from  the  solar  beam. 
Then  hence  with  all  your  sober  thinking 
Since  Nature's  holiest  law  is  drinking  : 
I'll  make  the  laws  of  Nature  mine, 
And  pledge  the  universe  in  wine. 

ANACREON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  THOMAS  MOOKK. 


TO  J 

GUARDIAN  of  yon  blushing  fair, 
Eeverend  matron,  tell  me  why 

You  affect  that  churlish  air, 
Snarling  as  I  pass  you  by. 

I  deserve  not  such  rebuke  : — 

AH  I  ask  is  but  to  look. 


424  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

True,  I  on  her  steps  attend — 
True,  I  cannot  choose  but  gaze ; 

But  I  meant  not  to  offend — 
Common  are  the  public  ways  : 

And  I  need  not  your  rebuke, 

When  I  follow  but  to  look. 

'Are  my  eyes  so  much  in  fault 

That  they  cannot  choose  but  see  ? 
By  the  gods  we're  homage  taught, 

Homage  is  idolatry. 
Spare  that  undeserv'd  rebuke ; — 
E'en  the  gods  permit  to  look. 

DIOTIMUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  3.  H.  MERIVALE. 


GOOD  gossip,  if  you  love  me,  prate  no  more : 

What  are  your  genealogies  to  me  1 

Away  to  those  who  have  more  need  of  them ! 

Let  the  degenerate  wretches,  if  they  can, 

Dig  up  dead  honor  from  their  fathers'  tombs, 

And  boast  it  for  their  own — vain,  empty  boast ! 

When  every  common  fellow  that  they  meet, 

If  accident  hath  not  cut  off  the  scroll, 

Can  show  a  list  of  ancestry  as  long. 

You  call  the  Scythians  barbarous,  and  despise  them ; 

Yet  Anacharsis  was  a  Scythian  born ; 

And  every  man  of  a  like  noble  nature, 

Though  he  were  moulded  from  an  ^thiop's  loins, 

Is  nobler  than  your  pedigrees  can  make  him. 

EPICHAKMUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  RICHARD  CUMBERLAND. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  425 


THE  HOJYEST 

WHEN  hungry  wolves  had  trespass'd  on  the  fold, 
And  the  robb'd  shepherd  his  sad  story  told, 
"  Call  in  Alcides,"  said  a  crafty  priest, 
"  Give  him  one-half,  and  he'll  secure  the  rest." 
"  No,"  said  the  shepherd,  "  if  the  Fates  decree, 
By  ravaging  my  flock,  to  ruin  me, 
To  their  commands  I  willingly  resign  ; 
Power  is  their  character,  and  patience  mine  ; 
Though,  'troth  to  me  there  seems  but  little  odds, 
Who  prove  the  greatest  robbers  —  wolves  or  gods." 

ANTIPATEK  OF  SIDON  (Greek). 

Translation  of  MATTHEW  PRIOR. 


WHAT  art,  vocation,  trade,  or  mystery 
Can  match  with  your  fine  Parasite  ?    The  painter  ? 
He  !  a  mere  dauber  :  a  vile  drudge,  the  farmer  : 
Their  business  is  to  labor,  ours  to  laugh, 
To  jeer,  to  quibble,  faith,  sirs  !  and  to  drink. 
Ay,  and  to  drink  lustily.     Is  not  this  rare  ? 
'Tis  life,  my  life  at  least  :  the  first  of  pleasure 
Were  to  be  rich  myself  ;  but  next  to  this 
I  hold  it  best  to  be  a  Parasite, 
And  feed  upon  the  rich.    Now,  mark  me  right  ! 
Set  down  my  virtues  one  by  one  :  imprimis, 
Good  will  to  all  men.     Would  they  were  all  rich, 
So  might  I  gull  them  all  :  malice  to  none  ; 
I  envy  no  man's  fortune  —  all  I  wish 
Is  but  to  share  it  :  would  you  have  a  friend, 
A  gallant  steady  friend  ?     I  am  your  man  : 
No  striker  I,  no  swaggerer,  no  defamer, 

But  one  to  bear  all  these  and  still  forbear  : 
36 


426  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

If  you  insult,  I  laugh,  unruffled,  merry, 

Invincibly  good-humor'd,  still  I  laugh  : 

A  stout,  good  soldier  I,  valorous  to  a  fault, 

When  once  my  stomach's  up  and  supper's  served  : 

You  know  my  humor,  not  one  spark  of  pride, 

Such  and  the  same  forever  to  my  friends  : 

If  cudgel'd,  molten  iron  to  the  hammer 

Is  not  so  malleable  ;  but  if  I  cudgel, 

Bold  as  the  thunder  :  is  one  to  be  blinded  1 

I  am  the  lightning's  flash  :  to  be  puff  d  up, 

1  am  the  wind  to  blow  him  to  the  bursting  : 

Choked,  strangled  ?     I  can  do  't  and  save  a  halter  : 

Would  you  break  down  his  doors  1    Behold  an  earthquake  : 

Open  and  enter  them  ?     A  battering  ram  : 

Will  you  sit  down  to  supper  1     I'm  your  guest, 

Your  very  Fly,  to  enter  without  bidding  : 

Would  you  move  off?     You'll  move  a  well  as  soon  : 

I'm.  for  all  work,  and  though  the  job  were  stabbing, 

Betraying,  false  accusing,  only  say 

Do  this,  and  it  is  done  !     I  stick  at  nothing  ; 

They  call  me  thunderbolt  for  my  despatch  : 

Friend  of  my  friends  am  I  :  let  actions  speak  me  : 

I'm  much  too  modest  to  commend  myself. 

ANTIPHANES  (Greek). 

Translation  of  RICHARD  CUMBERLAND. 


From  THE   BIRDS. 

YE  children  of  man,  whose  life  is  a  span, 
Protracted  with  sorrow  from  day  to  day, 
Naked  and  featherless,  feeble  and  querulous, 
Sickly,  calamitous  creatures  of  clay  ! 
Attend  to  the  words  of  the  sovereign  birds, 
(Immortal,  illustrious,  lords  of  the  air,) 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  427 

Who  survey  from  on  high,  with  a  merciful  eye, 

Your  struggles  of  misery,  labor  and  care. 

"Whence  you  may  learn  and  clearly  discern 

Such  truths  as  attract  your  inquisitive  turn ; 

Which  is  busied  of  late  with  a  mighty  debate, 

A  profound  speculation  about  the  creation, 

An  organical  life,  and  chaotical  strife, 

With  various  notions  of  heavenly  motions, 

And  rivers  and  oceans,  and  valleys  and  mountains, 

And  sources  of  fountains,  and  meteors  on  high, 

And  stars  in  the  sky.     We  propose  by-and-by, 

(If  you'll  listen  and  hear)  to  make  it  all  clear, 

And  Prodicus  henceforth  shall  pass  for  a  dunce 

When  his  doubts  are  explained  and  expounded  at  once. 

Before  the  creation  of  ^Ether  and  Light, 
Chaos  and  Night  together  were  plight, 
In  the  dungeon  of  Erebus  foully  bedight ; 
Nor  Ocean  or  Air,  or  Substance  was  there, 
Or  Solid  or  Kare,  or  Figure  or  Form, 
But  horrible  Tartarus  ruled  in  the  storm. 
At  length,  in  the  dreary  chaotical  closet 
Of  Erebus  old,  was  a  privy  deposit, 
By  Night  the  primeval  in  secrecy  laid ; 
A  mystical  egg,  that  in  silence  and  shade 
Was  brooded  and  hatched ;  till  time  came  about : 
And  Love,  the  delightful,  in  glory  flew  out, 
In  rapture  and  light,  exulting  and  bright, 
Sparkling  and  florid,  with  stars  on  his  forehead, 
His  forehead  and  hair,  and  a  flutter  and  flare, 
As  he  rose  in  the  air,  triumphantly  furnish'd, 
To  range  his  dominions,  on  glittering  pinions, 
And  golden  and  azure,  and  blooming  and  burnish'd. 
He  soon  in  the  murky  Tartarean  recesses, 

With  a  hurricane's  might,  in  his  fiery  caresses, 


428  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

Impregnated  Chaos  ;  and  hastily  snatch'd 
To  being  and  life,  begotten  and  hatch'd, 
The  primitive  Birds  :  But  the  Deities  all, 
The  celestial  Lights,  the  terrestrial  Ball, 
Were  later  of  birth,  with  the  dwellers  on  earth, 
More  tamely  combin'd,  of  a  temperate  kind, 
When  chaotical  mixture  approach'd  to  a  fixture. 
Our  antiquity  prov'd  ;  it  remains  to  be  shown 
That  Love  is  our  author  and  master  alone  ; 
Like  him  we  can  ramble,  and  gambol,  and  fly 
O'er  ocean  and  earth,  and  aloft  to  the  sky  : 
And  all  the  world  over  we're  friends  to  the  lover, 
And  when  other  means  fail,  we  are  found  to  prevail 
When  a  peacock  or  pheasant  is  sent  for  a  present. 

ARISTOPHANES  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  FRURE. 

THE  Z&AJV  LOTEftS. 


DEAR  Lyce,  thou  art  wond'rous  thin, 
And  I'm  a  bag  of  bones  and  skin  ; 

Yet  thou'rt  to  me  a  Venus  ! 
Fat  lovers  have  not  half  our  bliss  ; 
Our  very  souls  each  other  kiss, 

For  there's  no  flesh  between  us. 


MARCUS  ARGENTARIUS  (Greek). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


IF  love  be  folly  as  the  schools  would  prove, 
The  man  must  lose  his  wits  who  falls  in  love  ; 
Deny  him  love,  you  doom  the  wretch  to  death, 
And  then  it  follows  he  must  lose  his  breath. 
Good  sooth  !  there  is  a  young  and  dainty  maid 
I  dearly  love,  a  minstrel  she  by  trade  ; 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  429 

What  then  ?     Must  I  defer  to  pedant  rule, 
And  own  that  love  transforms  me  to  a  fool? 
Not  I,  so  help  me  !  by  the  gods  I  swear, 
The  nymph  I  love  is  fairest  of  the  fair ! 
Wise,  witty,  dearer  to  a  poet's  sight 
Than  piles  of  money  on  an  author's  night ; 
Must  I  not  love  her  then  ?     Let  the  dull  sot, 
Who  made  the  law,  obey  it !    I  will  not. 

THEOPHILUS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  RICHARD  CUMBEELAJHX 

TO  si   WO'RJV-OITT  &ELL&. 

YES,  you  may  change  your  hair,  but  not  your  age, 
Nor  smooth,  alas  !  the  wrinkles  of  your  face ; 

Yes,  you  may  varnish  o'er  the  tell-tale  page 
And  wear  a  mask  for  every  vanish'd  grace : 

But  there's  an  end.     No  Hecuba  by  aid 

Of  rouge  and  ceruse  is  a  Helen  made. 

LUCIAN  (Greek). 

Translation,  of  3.  H.  MERI  VALE. 

THE  THTSICIAJY  AJY3)  HIS  SOJV. 

His  darling  son  a  certain  doctor  brought, 
To  be  by  me  in  the  belles  let I res  taught. 
The  lad  began — "  Achilles'  wrath,  the  spring 
Of  woes  unnumbered,  heavenly  goddess,  sing  " — 
When  to  the  following  line  he  onward  went — 
"  Of  souls  to  Hades  prematurely  sent," 
"  Hold,"  said  the  leech,  "  no  use  in  this  I  see ; 
Such  lesson  he  may  learn  as  well  of  me, 
Who  souls  to  Hades  prematurely  send, 
Without  the  aid  of  grammar-rules,  my  friend." 

LUCIAN  (Greek). 

Translation  of  W.  HAT. 


430  Miscellaneous  Poems. 


OJV  A   CELEBftATEZ)  AC  TO  ft. 

ONCE,  in  a  fearful  vision  of  the  night, 
Lothario  seem'd  Howe's  frowning  ghost  to  see. 
"  I  never  wrong'd  thee,"  cried  the  laurell'd  sprite, 
"  Oh  why,  Lothario,  dost  thou  murder  me  ?" 

PALLADAS  (Greek). 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MERIVALX. 


LET  Rufus  weep,  rejoice,  stand,  sit,  or  walk, 
Still  he  can  nothing  but  of  Xsevia  talk  : 
Let  him  eat,  drink,  ask  questions,  or  dispute, 
Still  he  must  speak  of  Xaevia,  or  be  mute. 
He  wrote  his  father,  ending  with  this  line, 
"  I  am,  my  lovely  Xaevia,  only  thine." 

MARTIAL  (Latin). 

Translation  in  THE  SPECTATOR. 


OJV 

IN  all  thy  humors,  whether  grave  or  mellow, 
Thou  art  such  a  touchy,  testy,  pleasant  fellow, 
Hast  so  much  wit,  and  mirth,  and  spleen  about  thee, 
There  is  no  living  with  thee  or  without  thee. 

MARTIAL  (Latin). 

Translation  in  THE  SPECTATOR. 

So  careful  is  Isa  and  anxious  to  last, 

So  afraid  of  himself  is  he  grown, 
He  swears  thro'  two  nostrils  the  breath  goes  too  fast, 

And  he's  trying  to  breathe  thro'  but  one. 

BEN  AXEUMI  (Arabian).     Translation  of  J.  D.  CARLYLB. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  431 


TO  A  ZA3)r  UTOJV  HEft  KEFtTSAI,  Of  A 
'P'RESJEJYT  Of1  M&ZOJVS,  AJ\T2)  HE  ft  RE- 
JECTION Of1  THE  ADDRESSES  OF 


WHEN  I  sent  you  my  melons,  you  cried  out  with  scorn, 
"They  ought  to  be  heavy  and  wrinkled  and  yellow:" 

When  I  offered  myself,  whom  those  graces  adorn, 
You  flouted,  and  call'd  me  an  ugly  old  fellow. 

ALY  BEN  ABD  ALGANY  OF  CORDOVA  (Arabian). 

Translation  of  J.  D.  CARLYLE. 


AJV  ETIGftAM  WPOJY  ASOV  ALCHAIft 
SELAMU. 

AN   EGYPTIAN    PHYSICIAN. 

WHOEVER  has  recourse  to  thee 

Can  hope  for  health  no  more, 
He's  launched  into  perdition's  sea, 

A  sea  without  a  shore. 

Where'er  admission  thou  canst  gain, 

Where'er  thy  phyz  can  pierce, 
At  once  the  doctor  they  retain, 

The  mourners  and  the  hearse. 

GEORGE,  a  physician  of  Antioch  (Arabian). 

Translation  of  J.  D.  CARLYLE. 


OJV 

YES,  Leila,  I  swore,  by  the  fire  of  thine  eyes, 
I  ne'er  could  a  sweetness  unvaried  endure  ; 

The  bubbles  of  spirit,  that  sparkling  arise, 
Forbid  life  to  stagnate,  and  render  it  pure. 


432  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

But  yet,  my  dear  maid,  tho'  thy  spirif  s  my  pride, 
I'd  wish  for  some  sweetness  to  temper  the  bowl ; 

If  life  be  ne'er  suffered  to  rest  or  subside, 
It  may  not  be  vapid,  but  wont  it  be  foul  ? 

NABEGAT  BENI  JAID  (Arabian). 

Translation  of  J.  D.  CARLYLE. 


FAMILY 

UPON  an  old  estate,  her  father's  heritage, 
A  shrivelled  countess  dowager 
Had  vegetated  half  an  age ; 

She  drank  her  tea  mingled  with  elder-flowers, 
By  aching  bones  foretold  the  weather, 
Scolded  at  times,  but  not  for  long  together, 

And  mostly  yawned  away  her  hours. 
One  day,  (God  knows  how  such  things  should  occur  !) 
Sitting  beside  her  chambermaid 
In  her  saloon,  whose  walls  displayed 
Gilt  leather  hangings,  and  the  pictured  face 
Of  many  a  member  of  her  noble  race, 
She  pondered  thus  :  "I  almost  doubt 

Whether,  if  I  could  condescend 

Some  talk  on  this  dull  wench  to  spend, 
It  might  not  call  my  thoughts  off  from  my  gout ; 

And,  though  the  malkin  cannot  comprehend 
The  charms  of  polished  conversation, 

'Twill  give  my  lungs  some  exercise ; 
And  then  the  goosecap's  admiration 

Of  my  descent  to  ecstasy  must  rise." — 
"  Susan,"  she  said,  "  you  sweep  this  drawing-room, 

And  sweep  it  almost  every  day ; 

You  see  these  pictures,  yet  your  looks  betray 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  433 

You're  absolutely  ignorant  whom 
You  clear  from  cobwebs  with  your  broom. 
Now,  mind !    That's  my  great  grandsire  to  the  right, 
The  learned  and  travelled  president, 

Who   knew   the   Greek   and   Latin   names   of 

flies, 

And  to  the  Academy,  in  form  polite, 
Was  pleased  an  earthworm  to  present 
That  he  from  India  brought ;  a  prize 

Well  worth  its  weight  in  gold. — 
That  next  him,  in  the  corner  hung  by  chance, 
The  ensign  is,  my  dear,  lost,  only  son, 
A  pattern  in  the  graces  of  the  dance, 

My  pride  and  hope,  and  all  the  family's. 
Seven  sorts  of  riding-whips  did  he  invent ; 

But  sitting  by  the  window  caught  a  cold, 
And  so  his  honorable  race  was  run. 

He  soon  shall  have  a  marble  monument. — 
Now,  my  good  girl,  observe  that  other, 
The  countess  grandam  of  my  lady  mother, 
A  beauty  in  her  time  famed  far  and  near ; 
On  Queen  Christina's  coronation-day, 
She  helped  her  majesty,  they  say, — 
And  truly,  no  false  tale  you  hear, — 
To  tie  her  under-petticoat. — 
The  lady  whose  manteau  you  note 

Was  my  great  aunt.     Beside  her  see 
That  ancient  noble  in  the  long  simar ; 

An  uncle  of  the  family, 
Who  once  played  chess  with  Russia's  mighty  czar. — 

That  portrait  further  to  the  left 
Is  the  late  colonel,  my  dear  wedded  lord ; 
His  equal  shall  the  earth,  of  him  bereft, 
In  partridge-shooting  never  more  afford  ! — 
37 


434  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

But  now  observe  the  lovely  dame 
In  yonder  splendid  oval  frame, 

Whose  swelling  bosom  bears  a  rose ; — 
Not  that  one,  ninny  ; — look  this  way ; — 
What  haughtiness  those  eyes  display  ! 

How  nobly  aquiline  that  nose  ! 
King  Frederick  once  was  by  her  beauty  caught ; 
But  she  was  virtue's  self,  fired  as  she  ought, 

And  scolded,  reverently,  the  royal  youth, 
Till,  utterly  confused,  he  cried,  '  My  charmer, 
Your  virtue  's  positively  cased  in  armor ! ' 
Many  can  yet  attest  this  story's  truth. 
Well,  Susan,  do  you  know  the  lady  now  ? 
What !  don't  you  recognize  my  lofty  brow?" 
But,  "  Lord  have  mercy  on  me  !"  Susan  cries, 
And  scissors,  needle,  thread,  lets  slip ; 
" Could  that  be  ever  like  your  ladyship?" — 
"  What !  what !"  the  countess  screams,  with  flashing  eyes ; 
"  Could  that  be  like  me  ?  Idiot !  Nincompoop  ! 
Out  of  my  doors,  with  all  thy  trumpery  ! 
Intolerable  !     But  so  must  it  be, 
If  with  such  creatures  to  converse  we  stoop." 
A  gouty  twinge  then  seized  the  countess'  toe, 
And  of  her  history  that's  all  I  know. 

ANNA  MARIA  LENNOREN  (Swedish). 

Translation  in  QUARTERLY  REVIEW. 


GATE  ME 

THEY  gave  me  advice  and  counsel  in  store, 
Praised  me  and  honored  me,  more  and  more ; 
Said  that  I  only  should  "  wait  awhile," 
Offered  their  patronage,  too,  with  a  smile. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  435 

But  with  all  their  honor  and  approbation, 
I  should,  long  ago,  have  died  of  starvation ; 
Had  there  not  come  an  excellent  man, 
And  to  help  me  along  he  bravely  began. 

Good  fellow !  he  got  me  the  food  I  ate, 

His  kindness  and  care  I  shall  never  forget ; 

Yet  I  cannot  embrace  him — though  other  folks  can, 

For  I  myself  am  this  excellent  man ! 

HEINRICH  HEINE  (German). 

Translation  of  C.  G.  LELAND. 


SAINT  AJVTHOJVT'S  S&ftMON  TO   THE 
FISH&S. 

SAINT  ANTHONY  at  church 

Was  left  in  the  lurch, 

So  he  went  to  the  ditches 

And  preached  to  the  fishes. 
They  wriggled  their  tails, 
In  the  sun  glanced  their  scales. 

The  carps,  with  their  spawn, 
Are  all  thither  drawn ; 
Have  opened  their  jaws, 
Eager  for  each  clause. 

No  sermon  beside 

Had  the  carps  so  edified. 

Sharp-snouted  pikes, 
Who  keep  fighting  like  tikes, 
Now  swam  up  harmonious 
To  hear  Saint  Antoiiius. 

No  sermon  beside 

Had  the  pikes  so  edified. 


436  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

And  that  very  odd  fish, 
Who  loves  fast-days,  the  cod-fish,  - 
The  stock-fish,  I  mean, — 
At  the  sermon  was  seen. 
No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  cods  so  edified. 

Good  eels  and  sturgeon, 
Which  aldermen  gorge  on, 
Went  out  of  their  way 
To  hear  preaching  that  day. 
No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  eels  so  edified. 

Crabs  and  turtles  also, 
Who  always  move  slow, 
Made  haste  from  the  bottom, 
As  if  the  devil  had  got  'em. 
No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  crabs  so  edified. 

Fish  great  and  fish  small, 
Lords,  lackeys,  and  all, 
Each  looked  at  the  preacher 
Like  a  reasonable  creature. 
At  God's  word, 
They  Anthony  heard. 

The  sermon  now  ended, 
Each  turned  and  descended ; 
The  pikes  went  on  stealing, 
The  eels  went  on  eeling. 

Much  delighted  were  they, 
But  preferred  the  old  way. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  437 

The  crabs  are  backsliders, 
The  stock-fish  thick-siders, 
The  carps  are  sharp-set, 
All  the  sermon  forget. 

Much  delighted  were  they, 

But  preferred  the  old  way. 

ABRAHAM  A  SANCTA  CLARA  (German). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


THE  KING  OF 

AT  Yvetot  there  lived  a  king 

In  history  little  known, 
Who  thought  that  glory  (useless  thing) 

Would  not  become  his  throne. 
A  cotton  night-cap  graced  his  brows, 
Which  Jeannette,  mistress  of  his  house, 

Gave  him  as  crown.     Oh  dear ! 

Oh,  what  a  funny  king  was  here  ! 

He  breakfasted,  he  dined,  he  slept, 

As  other  sovereigns  do ; 
And  on  a  donkey  which  he  kept 

Travelled  his  kingdom  through. 
Plain,  honest,  unsuspecting,  free, 
No  other  body-guard  had  he 

But  a  poor  dog.     Oh  dear  ! 

Oh,  what  a  funny  king  was  here  ! 

This  sovereign  had  but  one  caprice, 

He  loved  a  jovial  cup, 
But  kings  who  wish  to  live  in  peace 

Must  keep  their  spirits  up. 


438  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

He  never  let  the  flagon  pass 
Without  his  tribute  of  a  glass. 

This  was  his  tax.     Oh  dear ! 

Oh,  what  a  funny  king  was  here  ! 

Him  would  the  village  girls  admire, 

All  hailed  him  with  delight, 
Whilst  his  young  subjects  called  him  "  sire  " — 

And  well  indeed  they  might. 
Twas  only  every  now  and  then 
He  drilled  his  little  troop  of  men, 

But  fired  no  ball.     Oh  dear  ! 

Oh,  what  a  funny  king  was  here  ! 

He  never  clipped  a  neighboring  state 

To  aggrandize  his  own, 
This  pattern  for  a  potentate 

Made  peace  support  his  throne. 
And  when  this  best  of  monarchs  died 
His  subjects  buried  him  and  cried, 

They  cried— Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  ! 

Oh,  what  a  funny  king  was  here  ! 

The  portrait  of  this  best  of  kings, 

So  loved  in  days  of  yore, 
Is  now  a  well  known  sign,  and  swings 

Above  an  ale-house  door. 
And  country  folks  on  holidays 
Will  stop  and  drink,  and  as  they  gaze 

Will  cry,  Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  ! 

Oh,  what  a  funny  king  was  here  J 

PIERRE  JEAN  DE  BERA.VGER  (French). 

Translator  UNKNOWN. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  439 


TO  MT  JYOS&. 

FAIR  Nose !  whose  rubies  red  have  cost  me  many  a  barrel 

Of  claret  wine  and  white, 
Who  wearest  in  thy  rich  and  sumptuous  apparel 

Such  red  and  purple  light ! 

Great  Nose !  who  looks  at  thee  through  some  huge  glass  at 
revel, 

More  of  thy  beauty  thinks  ; 
For  thou  resemblest  not  the  nose  of  some  poor  devil 

Who  only  water  drinks. 

The  turkey-cock  doth  wear,  resembling  thee,  his  wattles ; 

How  many  rich  men  now 
Have  not  so  rich  a  nose !    To  paint  thee,  many  bottles 

And  much  time  I  allow. 

The  glass  my  pencil  is  for  thine  illumination ; 

My  color  is  the  wine, 
With  which  I've  painted  thee  more  red  than  the  carnation, 

By  drinking  of  the  fine. 

'Tis  said  it  hurts  the  eyes ;  but  shall  they  be  the  masters  ? 

Wine  is  the  cure  for  all ; 
Better  the  windows  both  should  suffer  some  disasters, 

Than  have  the  whole  house  fall. 

OLIVIEH  BASSELIN  (French). 

Translation  of  JOHN  OXENFORD. 


440  Miscellaneous  Poems. 


MAL'BHOITCK. 

MALBROUCK,  the  prince  of  commanders, 
Is  gone  to  the  war  in  Flanders ; 
His  fame  is  like  Alexander's ; 
But  when  will  he  come  home  ? 

Perhaps  at  Trinity  Feast,  or 
Perhaps  he  may  come  at  Easter. 
Egad  !  he  had  better  make  haste,  or 
We  fear  he  may  never  come. 

For  Trinity  Feast  is  over, 
And  has  brought  no  news  from  Dover, 
And  Easter  is  past,  moreover, 
And  Malbrouck  still  delays. 

Milady  in  her  watch-tower 
Spends  many  a  pensive  hour, 
Not  well  knowing  why  or  how  her 
Dear  lord  from  England  stays. 

While  sitting  quite  forlorn  in 
That  tower,  she  spies  returning 
A  page  clad  in  deep  mourning, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow. 

"  0  page,  prithee,  come  faster ! 
What  news  do  you  bring  of  your  master  ? 
I  fear  there  is  some  disaster, 
Your  looks  are  so  full  of  woe." 

"  The  news  I  bring,  fair  lady," 
With  sorrowful  accent  said  he, 
"  Is  one  you  are  not  ready 
So  soon,  alas  !  to  hear. 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  441 

"  But  since  to  speak  I'm  hurried," 
Added  this  page,  quite  flurried, 
"  Malbrouck  is  dead  and  buried  !  " 
And  here  he  shed  a  tear. 

"  He's  dead  !  he's  dead  as  a  herring ! 
For  I  beheld  his  herring, 
And  four  officers  transferring 
His  corpse  away  from  the  field. 

"  One  officer  carried  his  sabre, 
And  he  carried  it  not  without  labor, 
Much  envying  his  next  neighbor, 
Who  only  bore  a  shield. 

"  The  third  was  helmet-bearer, — 
That  helmet  which  on  its  wearer 
Filled  all  who  saw  with  terror, 
And  covered  a  hero's  brains. 

"  Now,  having  got  so  far,  I 
Find,  that — by  the  Lord  Harry  ! — 
The  fourth  is  left  nothing  to  carry ; — 
So  there  the  thing  remains." 

UNKNOWN  (French). 

Translation  of  FRANCIS  MAHONY. 


OP  LITTLE  WOMEN. 

I  WISH  to  make  my  sermon  brief, — to  shorten  my  oration, — 

For  a  never-ending  sermon  is  my  utter  detestation  ; 

I  like  short  women,  suits  at  law  without  procrastina- 
tion, 

And  am  always  most  delighted  with  things  of  short  dura- 
tion. 

38 


442  Miscellaneous  Poems. 


A  babbler  is  a  laughing-stock ;  he's  a  fool  who's  always 
grinning ; 

But  little  women  love  so  much,  one  falls  in  love  with 
sinning. 

There  are  women  who  are  very  tall,  and  yet  not  worth  the 
winning, 

And  in  the  change  of  short  for  long  repentance  finds  be- 
ginning. 

To  praise   the  little   women   Love   besought   me   in   my 

musing ; 

To  tell  their  noble  qualities  is  quite  beyond  refusing : 
So  I'll  praise  the  little  women,  and  you'll  find  the  thing 

amusing ; 
They  are,  I  know,  as  cold  as  snow,  whilst  flames  around 

diffusing. 

They're  cold  without,  whilst  warm  within  the  flame  of  Love 

is  raging ; 
They're  gay  and  pleasant  in  the  street, — soft,  cheerful,  and 

engaging  j 
They're   thrifty  and   discreet  at  home, — the   cares  of  life 

assuaging : 
All  this  and  more ; — try,  and  you'll  find  how  true  is  my 

presaging. 

i 

In  a  little  precious  stone  what  splendor  meets  the  eyes 
In  a  little  lump  of  sugar  how  much  of  sweetness  lies  ! 
So  in  a  little  woman  love  grows  and  multiplies : 
You  recollect  the  proverb  says, — A  ward  unto  the  wise. 

A  pepper-corn  is  very  small,  but  seasons  every  dinner 
More  than  all  other  eondiments,  although  'tis  sprinkled 
thinner : 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  443 


Just  so  a  little  woman  is,  if  Love  will  let  you  win  her, — 
There  not  a  joy  in  all  the  world  you  will  not  find  within 
her. 

And  as  within  the  little  rose  you  find  the  richest  dyes, 
And  in  a  little  grain  of  gold  much  price  and  value  lies, 
As  from  a  little  balsam  much  odor  doth  arise, 
So  in  a  little  woman  there's  a  taste  of  paradise. 

Even  as  the  little  ruby  its  secret  worth  betrays, 
Color,  and  price,  and  virtue,  in  the  clearness  of  its  rays, — 
Just  so  a  little  woman  much  excellence  displays, 
Beauty,  and  grace,  and  love,  and  fidelity  always. 

The  skylark  and  the  nightingale,  though  small  and  light 

of  wing, 
Yet  warble  sweeter  in  the  grove  than  all  the  birds  that 

sing: 

And  so  a  little  woman,  though  a  very  little  thing, 
Is  sweeter  far  than  sugar,  and  flowers  that  bloom  in  spring. 

The  magpie  and  the  golden  thrush  have  many  a  thrilling 

note, 

Each  as  a  gay  musician  doth  strain  his  little  throat, — 
A  merry  little  songster  in  his  green  and  yellow  coat : 
And  such  a  little  woman  is,  when  Love  doth  make  her  dote. 

There's  naught  can  be  compared  to  her,  throughout  the 

wide  creation ; 

She  is  a  paradise  on  earth, — our  greatest  consolation, — 
So  cheerful,  gay,  and  happy,  so  free  from  all  vexation ; 
In  fine,  she's  better  in  the  proof  than  in  anticipation. 


444  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

If  as  her  size  increases  are  woman's  charms  decreased, 
Then  surely  it  is  good  to  be  from  all  the  great  released. 
Now  of  two  evils  choose  tJie  less, — said  a  wise  man  of  the 

East: 
By  consequence,  of  woman-kind  be  sure  to  choose  the  least. 

JUAN  Ruiz  DE  HITA  (Spanish). 

Translation  in  NORTH  AMERICAN  REVIEW. 


SLEEP  is  no  servant  of  the  will, — 

It  has  caprices  of  its  own : 

When  most  pursued,  'tis  swiftly  gone ; 
When  courted  least,  it  lingers  still. 
With  its  vagaries  long  perplexed, 

I  turned  and  turned  my  restless  sconce, 

Till,  one  bright  night,  I  thought  at  once 
I'd  master  it  • — so  hear  my  text ! 

When  sleep  will  tarry,  I  begin 

My  long  and  my  accustomed  prayer ; 

And  in  a  twinkling  sleep  is  there, 
Through  my  bed-curtains  peeping  in ; 
When  sleep  hangs  heavy  on  my  eyes, 

I  think  of  debts  I  fain  would  pay ; 

And  then,  as  flies  night's  shade  from  day, 
Sleep  from  my  heavy  eyelids  flies. 

And  thus  controlled,  the  winged  one  bends 

E'en  his  fantastic  will  to  me  ; 

And,  strange  yet  true,  both  I  and  he 
Are  friends, — the  very  best  of  friends  : 


Miscellaneous  Poems.  445 

We  are  a  happy,  wedded  pair, 

And  I  the  lord  and  he  the  dame ; 

Our  bed,  our  board,  our  hours  the  same ; 
And  we're  united  everywhere. 

I'll  tell  you  where  I  learned  to  school 
This  wayward  sleep  : — a  whispered  word 
From  a  church-going  hag  I  heard, — 

And  tried  it, — for  I  was  no  fooL 

So  from  that  very  hour  I  knew, 
That  having  ready  prayers  to  pray, 
And  having  many  debts  to  pay, 

Will  serve  for  sleep  and  waking  too. 

BALTASAR  DEL  ALCAZAR  (Spanish}. 

Translation  of  SIR  JOHN  BOWRINO. 


